convince me that the winter is over
by kkolmakov
Summary: Modern AU. A snow storm. A cold flat. Accidental lodgers. A man and a woman. She has scars, he is prepared to be patient. Trauma and tenderness.
1. Chapter 1

The fever is very high, you have no energy to get up and walk to the kitchen to get a thermometer, but you doubt it's below 39 degrees. The room is swimming in front of your eyes, it is dark, the lights went out yesterday, and you see some strange purple shapes and forms squirming on the wall and on the ceiling. At some point you start crying quietly. This is the second time in your life you have been that sick. Last time you were nine, and it was in a foster home. No one took care of you then either, but at that time you felt it was for the best. Anything was tolerable as long as you were left alone. This time you keep on telling yourself that you are fine, you have your room, your bed, your bedding with yellow roses, you got out, you are your own person now, no one will harm you anymore, but the fever makes you miserable, and your pillow gets wet. Whatever made you proud of yourself before, being on your own, not depending on anyone, building your life the way you want, at this moment is making you cry louder.

Hallucinations become stronger, soon the whole world is full of some wiggling and slithering slimy shapes, and you gather enough strength to reach for your mobile on the bedside table. It takes you a few seconds to concentrate on the screen, you press random buttons, and then you realize that there is no coverage. That is the last drop, you crawl back under the blanket and cry yourself to sleep. Among other things you really have no one to call.

Several hours later, you really don't understand what time it is anymore, you think you have lost consciousness, when something cool lies on your forehead. Something fizzy is poured into your mouth, and the cold lemony liquid brings relief. You fall asleep, and in your half slumber, half delirium you think you feel someone running their fingers through your hair. You wake up several hours later, sweaty sheets sticking to your body, and find another glass of medicine by your bed. You drink it, remembering how much better you felt from it last time, and you want to go back into darkness, but your bladder has other plans.

It takes you three times longer than usual to get to the bathroom, your knees are wobbly, and you are walking holding on to the wall. You have to stop half way to catch your breath, and that is considering how tiny your flat is. When you finally get to the door and jerk it open, you realize you are staring at a stranger in boxer briefs.

He obviously has just stepped out of the shower, the mirror in the bathroom is foggy, he is rubbing his astonishing mane of long, dark hair with a towel, and he turns. Your eyes meet, and your mouth falls open.

"You shouldn't be up," he has a very nice voice, and he is keeping it down obviously for your sake.

"I need to pee," you really have nothing better to say. He bends and picks up his clothes from the floor, for a second you are staring at his muscular back, skin tanned and even, long muscles along his spine, and then he pulls up his denim.

"I'll step outside, but call me if anything. You are probably still very weak," he squeezes by you and out of the bathroom, and his hand accidentally brushes your upper arm. Even in your feverish state, his skin feels scorching.

You do your stuff, wash your hands and face, and suddenly you have an irresistible desire to take a shower. You jerk off your PJs and turn on cool water. You step under it, and then hear the stranger's voice.

"Wren, are you taking a shower?"

"Yes," you sound squeaky.

"It's not safe, you are still running a fever probably." The nippy water feels amazing on your skin though, and you feel much better. And then your knees buckle, and you start sliding down the wall. On the way you topple shampoo bottles of a shelf, and before you hit the bottom of the tub, a pair of strong hands picks you up. "What a stubborn woman!" He grumbles under his breath and pulls you out. He is so large that you feel like a child in his arms. At least you washed your hair and scrubbed yourself a bit with a loofah. He wraps you in a towel and carries you back into your room. You whine in his hands, you don't want to go back to your bed. "What?" He asks softly.

"The sheets, they are all sticky..."

"You are right, we need to wash them. OK, let me think," he gives it a thought. Then he takes you through the kitchenette, and into Thea's room. He puts you on her bed, and you realize that is where he slept last night. "I spent two night here, but I swear I'm very clean." There is a smile in his voice. "Your friend mentioned you are very concerned with cleanliness."

"I bet she used the word clean freak," you mumble. You climb under his blanket that suddenly feels so nice that you are completely unconcerned that he saw you naked and you don't even know his name. The sheets smell like soap, his cologne and what you assume is the fragrance of his skin. It's fresh and grassy.

Suddenly he grabs your ankle, and you remember that there is man in your flat whom you've never seen in your life before. But then he pulls you towards him and grabs to corner of your towel. He pulls it from under the blanket and smirks. You probably looked alarmed for a second.

"It will feel disgusting pretty soon if you leave it in there. Sleep, I'll wake you up for more medicine later."


	2. Chapter 2

You wake up on your own, confused by why you are in Thea's room, and then you remember a half naked bloke in your bathroom, and a cool cloth on your forehead and medicine pressed to your lips. You think that you should at least ask for his name. You doubt he left with your telly. Burglars don't take showers in burgled flats.

You throw a robe on, wander into the kitchenette and find him at the table, in a grey tee and denim, barefoot, reading a book and chewing a toast. He is also wearing glasses and looks very good in them. You are bundled in your robe with merry penguins on it.

"Hi..." You have to lean on the doorframe to stay vertical.

"Hi," he smiles widely to you, "I'm John."

"Are you Thea's friend?" By friend you mean a shag mate.

"No, I work with Jimmy." That doesn't tell you anything.

"Who?"

"Jimmy, her boyfriend."

"Thea doesn't have boyfriends, she shags." He chuckles.

"Well, now she does date. Since last month. And when the snow storm hit I rang them, they said you wouldn't mind my staying here for a night, she sent you a text, but then the mobiles went out, and I got stuck here. She is probably stuck at his place. And she didn't mention you were sick either. How are you feeling now?"

"What snow storm?" You feel like you are in a dream. He chuckles again, a warm rumbly noise in his chest, and points at the window. You shuffle to it and look outside. The street beneath your windows is covered in snow, parked cars buried under it.

"Don't you remember lights going out?" You heavily sit on a chair.

"Vaguely. Now that you mentioned, yes, I do. I was already feeling poorly, and I don't..." You rub your face with your palms. He gets up and starts doing something busily around the kitchen. You stare at his mug of tea and realize you are endlessly thirsty. Suddenly a bowl of chicken soup, even with chopped fresh parsley in it, a glass of orange juice and croutons appear in front of your nose. You are staring at the food.

"There is a possibility that the electricity will go out too at some point so I cooked as much as I could. You have a ridiculously empty fridge." He sits back on his chair in front of you and bites into his toast with gusto. He has a thick black beard, and his cheek funnily rounds up from a piece of bread in his mouth.

"Are you a chef?" You still can't tears your eyes off the food. He chuckles and takes a large sip from his mug. Everything he does looks somewhat… tasty.

"I'm an archaeologist." You pick up the spoon and try the soup. It's magnificent. "I'm just used to taking care of myself. Travelling a lot and such." You lick your lips and look up at him. He looks completely relaxed, long legs stretched in the center of the kitchenette, and he is openly studying you. He is in no luck, not much to see here. You start to slowly eat your soup. "You know, besides other things, your friend Thea mentioned you are a control freak as well," his teasing is good-humoured, and you are enjoying your first meal in two and a half days too much to bother. You still feel like you just woke up after a month of coma. "You didn't even ask for my ID." You are done, and you lick your spoon. He smirks. "Drink your juice. I'll make you tea. How do you take it?"

"Honey and cream."

You obediently drink the juice, surprising yourself. You don't like orange juice, and even more so you don't like to be told what to do. According to your school psychologist, you have a "excessive need for control and intimacy avoidance", meaning you can't be dependent and experience compelled need to be in control in every situation. You are better these days, you have built a healthy life, you have a job you love and friends, you let a few people close to yourself, but the control thing is still true. Right now you are letting a bloke you've never seen in your life tell you what to drink. Somehow it doesn't feel intrusive, it feels like he is taking care of you. Altogether it feels nice. He places a large mug of tea in front of you and smiles to your softly. Even your muddled, exhausted mind can't help but notice how attractive he is, with his bright blue eyes, masculine jawline, wide shoulders, large but elegant hands, long fingers, and narrow wrists.

You two are drinking tea in silence, and he goes back to his book. It's _Lord of the Flies_, and you make a "hm" noise. He lifts his eyes and jerks his eyebrows questioningly.

"Golding?"

He smiles and takes off his glasses. You realize they are for reading. He is probably older than you thought initially. You assumed the grey strands are just genetics in his dark waves, but now you think he is probably over forty.

"I've never read it before. I found it in your living room, I hope you don't mind."

"It's not mine, it's Thea's. She has an English degree."

"I thought she is a DJ." You chuckle.

"She is. Tells you of the proficiency of the education in this country."

"She also mentioned you are a web designer." You hum in agreement and finish your tea. You are suddenly sleepy, from the warm food in your stomach and from the view of soft large snowflakes falling behind the window. "You should go back to bed, Wren. You look tired." You assume it's his polite way of saying you look like shite, but it's not news for you. You nod and rise, but then you sway. He jumps up and supports you. He is indeed very warm, and you suddenly think he is probably very nice to sleep with. Not as in "sleep" sleep, but cuddle, and then you chuckle quietly. You doubt you have ever in your life used the word "cuddle" even in your head. He throws a confused look at you and walks you to Thea's bedroom.

"If you tell me where detergent is, I can wash your sheets, but you honestly can take the bed again." You have no energy left, so you just nod and climb under the blanket. You are asleep before he closes the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

You wake up already late in the evening, endlessly cold and hungry. Your teeth are chattering, and you realize the heating is off. You stretch your hand to the lamp and realize that John the Archaeologist was right, the electricity has conked out as well. You remember that there are matches in the kitchenette and both you and Thea have plenty of candles in your bedrooms. No one can leave IKEA without buying one on their way out. You are still very weak, but you feel much better. You are walking holding to the wall again, this time from darkness, when turning around a corner you slam into his scorching hard body. You squeak and press your hand to your chest.

"I thought I heard you," his voice is warm, "How are you feeling?" He is holding a candle in his hand, and the smell of "Heirloom Pumpkin" from Bath&Body hits your nose.

"I'm much better, thank you. Hungry though..." You immediately think that was a wrong thing to say. It sounded as if you were asking for his help, and your first natural reaction is to object to it. You can take care of yourself.

"You should go back to bed, you'll be warmer there. I'll bring you what I managed to squirrel." You are standing in front of him, ready to start arguing but the word "squirrel" makes you pause. You throw an incredulous look at him, and he smiles widely to you. "Off you pop, Wren." He shoos you with a wave of his hand, and your eyes boggle. He then places the hand on your shoulder, it is hot and heavy, swirls you around and slightly pushes you towards Thea's bedroom, his large palm brushing between your shoulder blades, gently nudging you. "I'll be right back." He leaves towards the kitchen, and you find yourself obediently plod back.

He comes back with a thermos of soup and a plate of cold toasts. You are sitting, your knees pulled to your nose, two blankets wrapped around you. You found Thea's sweater, which can fit two of you, especially in the chest area, and your own fluffy socks. He is wearing a sweater and a pair of airplane socks now. They are extra fuzzy and look ridiculous. He hands you the food and smiles again.

"No comments on the socks. I was flying from Berlin and was supposed to be in Rio at the moment. All my warm clothes were bought in the airport." His sweater indeed says _I heart Berlin_. You take a big swig from the thermos, the soup is lukewarm, but it's still divine. He added some spices when he was boiling the chicken, and you drink some more. And only then you remember that you are supposedly a host in this house.

"Have you eaten?" He chuckles and nods. He looks good in the flickering light of the candles. His face has a very noble bone structure, high cheekbones and a straight, long nose, an interesting soft line of lips.

"I have a portable radio," he lights up a few candles on your vanity. Just as you thought before, all his movements are sort of tasty, savouring, warm. His actions are purposeful but there is odd laziness in them. Each candle lights up, colouring his face in a new tinge of colour, and every next flicker of fire is met with a small smile. "They say the light and the heating will be back tomorrow morning." He looks at the large watch on his right hand, "It's nine now, they are hoping it to be up in twelve hours."

"I'll probably be dead by then," your teeth loudly clank on the rim of the thermos, and he looks at you lifting one eyebrow. "I'm cold in July, right now I feel like I swallowed a foot long icicle." You don't understand why you are telling him this, it's not like you expect him to solve your problem.

"Even under two blankets?"

"I sleep under them in Summer."

"Do you want me to bring yours from your room and the quilt from the living room?"

"You also need something to cover with, though you seem to have a furnace of your own inside." You bite your tongue, you are so cold that you can't think, and quite obviously still delirious, since you have never in your life spoken like this to a bloke. He chuckles.

"I do indeed have a higher core temperature than most, I have a rapid metabolism, but if you knew anything about human anatomy, you'd know it doesn't mean I don't get cold." He leans on the wall and gives you an odd appraising look. You tense. "Listen, Wren, I'll be honest with you. Thea said you have issues with personal space and boundaries, and the last thing I want is for you to feel threatened or uncomfortable, but it'd be so much easier if we just slept in the same bed tonight."

You feel every muscle in your body go rigid, and you hear the familiar ringing in your ears. You take a deep breath, just as they taught you in your therapy sessions, and try to process your sensations. Let's face it, "issues with personal space and boundaries" really doesn't cover it, Thea was just being delicate. He is standing by the wall, his massive arms folded on his chest. It is an interesting gesture, he doesn't cross them, just covers one forearm with another, his long fingers clasped on the other elbow. Like many people with your past, you tend to notice little things about people and then agonize over them for months. It's called "constant vigilance." Your mind perceives everyone, especially men due to your former circumstances, as a threat. Among other things that's why you are still in shock that you didn't go into a full scale psychotic episode when you found him in your flat. Partially it can be explained by your being as good as half dead from the flu, but also you are having a very strange reaction to him. He makes you anxious, but sort of in a good way, if such thing exists. You are constantly aware of his presence, but you don't feel scared. It is additionally astonishing, considering that when he pulled you out of the bath, he surely saw the scars on your back. You are chewing on your bottom lip, he is silent, calm small smile on his lips. He is just waiting for your decision.

"Um..." You fidget with the blanket. "I understand the reasoning, but I've never seen you in my life before. I mean it's quite obvious by now that you are not a serial killer or a rapist, but… um…"

"Wren, honestly, no problem," he smiles wider and picks up one of the candles. "I'm going to the living room to read my very disturbing book," you can't help but snort, and he nods, quite obviously having aimed to cheer you up, "I'll bring you the blankets from your room, and will take the quilt. You should sleep by the way, you are probably still sick as a dog. And call me if anything, OK?" You agree, and he leaves. At the door he turns around, "Put out the candles before you sleep. We don't want any fire. You might warm up at least for a bit of course, but the comfort wouldn't last long." You smile at his, let's be honest, terrible joke, and he closes the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Two hours later you understand that you won't sleep. You put on your flannel PJs, to get them from your room you passed through the living room. He seemed sleeping already, the candle was out, and you could see his form on the lilo, covered by the Afghan quilt Thea brought home two weeks ago. Now you are thinking it's probably a present from the mysterious Jimmy. You've known Thea for ten years, you met at school, and became immediate friends. She is a slag, in the best sense of that word. She shags and forgets. You respect each other's life choices. Her dating is definitely something new. She'd tell you on her own terms, and you respect that too. She probably needs time to get used to that as well. After all she made it a rule to never shag the same bloke two nights in a row. You are wearing her sweater over the PJs, two pairs of socks, and still you can't feel your toes and your fingers literally hurt from cold.

You sit up on her bed, wrap in all the blankets, and pull your knees to your nose. It's not just the cold, it's his smell as well. You are actually lucky that you are so weakened by the flu and so drowsy from the cold and the hunger, otherwise your brain would have gone into full scale panic mode by now. You can't wrap your mind around him, around what is happening, and you are only grateful it'll end soon. Once the lights and heating are back, he'll leave to his airport and will go to Rio.

The thought is comforting, you take an easier breath in. And then you chuckle. It is funny to have a bloke in this flat actually. Thea rarely brings anyone over, she is a hotel type of chick. It makes sense to you, and you are grateful. She knew that would be best to proceed this way when she offered you to be flatmates. You really can't be around men, especially strangers, and with her habits they all would be strangers. She goes on tours though and spends a night elsewhere if she is shagging, and since she needs a lot of it she ends up staying in a night or two a week maximum. You love spending days with her, you two shop, go to parks and eat out. Shopping is rad with her. You buy books and vinyls, she shops for men. She likes artistic type, so old book shops are perfect for both of us. Thea is familiar, Thea is safe. Many years ago your first therapist told you you needed the right relationships to get better, someone safe, someone healing. You know it's not her, but you are fine. Your life is fine.

Except you are extremely cold. You can hear your teeth chattering. You try curling in a ball, tucking the blanket all around you, but in your best days you hardly produce any warmth, you are just too skinny, and right now you are clenching your jaws so it hurts. You are taking deliberate breaths in, trying to manage the intrusive memories. It was always cold in that house. You had your sisters with you, in your bed, it was warmer then, but after they were moved to a new home, those terrifying two weeks you were just as cold.

You would lie on the bed, with your head covered, just like you are right now, and then the door would open, a small change in the air, it didn't creak, and he would stand there looking at you. He never came in at night, but you knew he was there. You are biting your finger, trying to separate reality from the memories. And then he would quietly call your name to make sure you are sleeping.

"Wren?"

And that is when you scream. You didn't scream then, you stayed still and waited for him to leave, but you are different now. You always scream from your nightmares now.

A warm hand lies on your shoulder, and you thrash.

"Wren, it's alright, it's me, John! I'm sorry I scared you!" You batter his hand away, and he steps back. "I was just worried, it is so cold..." You are taking giant gulps of air in. "I'm sorry..."

"It's OK, I'm OK, it's just a bad dream..." That's what you always tell Thea. She never asks, it's a part of your unspoken agreement. Tears start, but he can't see them, so it's fine.

"Wren, you were just running a fever. I can't leave you in this temperature. We can move to the lilo, we can sit, we can light the candles, but I'm not leaving you alone in this bloody cold." His tone is calm but firm. It sounds like he gave it a lot of thought.

And then the buzzing in your ears slightly subsides, and you remember where you are and who is in front of you. He is right though, you need warmth. You choke.

"Lilo sounds fine..."

"Alright then, I'll go light up some candles and don't forget the blankets when you come." He leaves, soft steps in his airplane socks. You make yourself concentrate on the sound. It is unfamiliar, confident wide stride, almost a strut, nothing to do with the heavy shuffling you still hear in your dreams.

You hide under the blanket again and go through the steps. You take regular breaths and talk yourself through it. Step one, acknowledgement of trauma. You've been been physically abused when you were a child and a teenager. You are physically healthy now, no irreparable damage to your body was done, just the scars. Step two, traumatic experiences integration. You have been in therapy since you were forteen. You have significantly recovered, your symptoms are mild. Step three, trigger identification. You are cold, and there is a male in your flat. You are forced to communicate with him by circumstances, which triggers your sense of helplessness and lack of control. You do not know him, you perceive him as danger. Step four, disconnect the current circumstances from the traumatic experiences and challenge irrational thoughts. He is not your stepfather, he is just some bloke that got stuck in your flat, he is your friend's boyfriend's colleague. He took care of you when you were sick. He made you soup and gave up blankets for you. He has been considerate and polite. He left his wallet on the living room table, you can go and take it. You have a pool cue in the living room. You get up, pick up the blankets and walk towards the flickering light of candles.


	5. Chapter 5

You enter the room and see whole bunch of candles burning all over the table and the shelves. He is standing in the middle of the rug, and to your surprise you see he is holding his passport in his hand.

"Here," he is stretching it towards you. "It's my passport. You should take a picture and email it to someone you trust, tell them you are in a flat alone with me, and if anything were to happen, they'd have my info." You blink and stare at the little leathery book in his hand.

"There is no coverage." He nods, he has thought of it too.

"Yes, but aren't your emails sort of just pending there until you get coverage? I'm rubbish with technology, but you are not. Right?" You wonder what kind of life a person needs to lead to have that much calm confidence. "Common, do your voodoo." He smiles, and you take the passport. You open it and stare at his younger face. The beard is already there, but there is less silver in the hair. You find out he forty four. You take a photo and send an email to one of your colleagues. You attach a message, this bloke is a conspiracy theory freak, he'll love it. Or at least he won't think you are totally bonkers. John leaves you to it and starts arranging blankest of the lilo. It's honestly really short, you wonder how he fit his massive body on it. And then your jaws clench. To get warm you will have to get close to that very body, and you are not looking forward to it. To be precise, you think you might vomit from the thought. You peek into the passport. The amount of stamps is amazing, most of them from Egypt and Brazil, but also all over the world, you even see a couple of Russian ones. He carefully coughs, and you lift your eyes. You hand him the passport back, but he shakes his head. "Keep it. If I make you angry, you can tear it in pieces. That will honestly be more painful than kicking me in the bollocks. The renewal process is excruciating." You don't smile back, but it's a bit easier to breathe. You stuff the passport in the pocket of Thea's sweater. "Wren, you have to tell me how to proceed here." He is studying you, and you immediately go into defence mode. You are still wrapped in one of the blankets. "Damn it, Wren, I am honestly not certain how to go about it, you don't have to tell me anything but I see that I'm frightening you..." For the first time he seems uncertain of himself. "Basically, tell me what scares you."

"Um..." You have nothing. Talking about your issues is your main problem. And the answer to his question is everything. "I've never slept in one bed with a bloke." It is hardly even close to the summary of the problem, but it's all you have for him.

"Alright, makes sense," he nods confirming some thoughts to himself, "How about this? You stay wrapped in the blanket, then we sit close, and we wrap the rest of them around us. This way we are sharing the warmth, but I'm not touching you." You give it a thought, you will still be internally screaming, but the fact that he is so accomodating is endlessly relieving. You nod and climb on the lilo, in a tight cocoon of the blanket. He arranges the rest of them around you, slides underneath them, and for the first time in your life a male body is pressed into your side. You inhale and hold your breath. You are rigid, every muscle tense, but the panic you expected doesn't come. He shifts a bit, pulls up his long legs, his hands move under the blankets, and you croak. He looks at you, his brows lifted questioningly, but you shake your head. You have no words.

"Alright?" You are not, but you nod. He sits quietly, without moving for a few seconds, and you exhale slowly. He hides his long nose under the edge of the blanket and mumbles from there, "I know I might be pressing too hard here, but if you keep on sitting that straight and rigid you will be colder, not warmer. Do you think you can try to sort of lean into me?"

You look at him askew. Somehow the first thing you notice are three small moles on his neck, under the jawline, three small black dots, his skin tanned, still in a contrast with the black beard, and then you think how different his skin is from yours. He is not moving, his breathing even, and after a few seconds of hesitation you move closer and tuck yourself into his side, your shoulder surprisingly finding a very comfortable position, your face close to his neck, and the smell of his skin mixed with some fresh, manly soap sneaks into your nose. You shortly wonder if he is going to yelp if you press your freezing nose into the hollow under his ear. That is a strange thought, something from a film. It is mind-boggling, to be precise. You have never in your life imagined touching someone as graphically.

"Alright, with that aside," he leans into the back of the lilo, and your body follows his. You are rather comfortable, and you slightly release the fists you were holding, your nails not digging into your palms anymore, "I understand you won't sleep near me, and sitting is probably more comfortable for you, and the lights stay, so do you want to talk then?"

You have two thoughts at the moment. He has an amazing voice. Soft, low, with a smile sounding clearly in it, and just the right amount of rasp. The little breath in he takes before each phrase that you have noticed before, now you can feel it under your shoulder, and you mumble, "We can… What do you want to talk about?" The second thought is now that you are a bit warmer, you feel sleepy. And the last thing you need now is to fall asleep. It will be the worst. You will have nightmares, and you will scream and try to claw his eyes out. Or you will wake up, see him and try to claw his eyes out. Or you will actually enjoy it and will never be able to process or forget it.

"I don't know..." His slight Northern accent is more noticeable now, and you understand he is tired. You immediately feel sharp guilt for keeping him up, for not giving him what he needs, for making him sit, and you momentarily think you should invite him to move to bed under the same blanket. And then the panic kicks in, and you start shaking. Your throat constricts, and you close your eyes. You tell yourself it's the typical mental process for a person with your issues. You are afraid of being rejected, you can't make your needs known, so your first urge is to please, to give a person what you think they want, but then a defence mechanism kicks in. And you freak out. "Wren, what's wrong?" Your eyes fly open.

"Nothing, sorry, what were you saying?" He is giving you an incredulous look. "Let's talk about your work. What do you do? Do you study mummies?" He is quiet, but then he concedes and chuckles.

"No, it's mostly just clay pots. I work with the Northern Branch of the Egypt Exploration Society, in cooperation with the Manchester University. We mostly work in the Valley of the Kings, in Giza, but believe me, nothing exciting," his chuckles reverberate right through you, and your head is heavy, and as much as you are fighting it, it lies under his collarbone. You are relaxing into his warmth. It is astonishing, like being pressed to a heater through a blanket. "These days it's mostly addressing the damage done by older excavations and wistfully looking at the pyramids, imagining what it was like to be the first to enter them."

You have always dreamt of seeing pyramids. You don't need to be the first, you just want to touch the dusty yellow stones, sun heated, warm. You wonder what they would feel like under your fingers. You have read up on them. You have read up on everything. You read a lot. And then you remember his hands, calmly lying on your kitchen table. Long fingers, short nails, tanned and masculine, you imagine them running on the polished blocks of white limestone. You imagine it so clearly that you feel an urge to pull his hand from under the blanket and look at the pulps of his fingers.


	6. Chapter 6

He is talking about his work, but something is scraping at your mind. You remember his passport. The problem is your mind gets stuck on one little detail, and it ruins everything for you. You felt so nice for a second there, and now your body stiffens.

"Wren, I have to tell you that though there is a blanket between us, I can literally feel that you just freaked out internally. How about you just tell me what's wrong?" By now you can hear his heart beating evenly all through these layers, and it is astonishingly soothing. He is all flesh and blood, and somehow it's a comforting thought.

"Your passport is full of Brazilian stamps, and you are saying you work in Egypt." You are terrified by your own words, but he smiles softly.

"My mom lives in Brazil, with her new husband. She is 78, and that's her fourth marriage. He owns a coffee plantation in Minas Gerais, not far from São Thomé das Letras," in Portuguese his voice sounds even more fruity, "He is madly in love with her, in his 80, and brings her fresh white roses every day." You move away from him and look into his face to see if he is taking a piss. He is not, although there is laughter dancing in his eyes. "I'd cross my heart but I don't want to take my hands out. And I just figured out what we are going to do. You are going to ask me all possible questions, every little thing that is bothering you, and I'll answer all of them honestly. How about that?" You are still looking in his eyes, and then his thick black lashes flutter. You have seen enough soppy romcoms to understand that's when a hero would kiss a chick. Except that's absurd, of course he doesn't even think about it. You are staring at him in shock, and he blinks. His blue eyes get focused again, and he smiles blissfully, "So, shoot. Anything else bothering you besides my passport?"

And just because you just thought for a second that he might be enjoying sitting with you, which he obviously isn't, but even you need to give yourself a break sometimes, you blurt out, "Why are you wearing the watch on your right hand? You are not a lefty." Somehow he manages to keep his facial expression friendly and serene all through your mental behaviour.

"I have narrow wrists, and they are long if you know what I mean, so the watch slides down and hurts the back of my hand with its crown, so I'm wearing it on the right one. This one is actually nice, Bremont, sorry again, I'm not taking my hand out. My sister gave it to me." You are silent. "Do you wear a watch?" He smiles to you, a simple relaxed question.

"No, it's a one function device. A phone can provide the same information, with more precision, while you are checking your email, listen to music and browse the net at the same time." He chuckles and throws you a mischievous look from the corner of his eye.

"So you are a soulless techno geek, lovely," there are crow's feet in the corners of his eyes, and shadows from his lashes are deep and dark under his eyes in the candle light. And because the two of you are in some sort of a bubble of warmth, and because it's so late and you are slightly losing your inhibitions, you bump your shoulder into his. He dramatically rocks away from you and back.

"Are you going to argue with me? What is there in the watch that makes it so special?"

"Design, art, ingenious mechanism, hands and ideas that are necessary for it to be born, traditions, history… I'm an archaeologist, remember?"

"I point and laugh at archaeologists," you bite back, and he guffaws.

"_Doctor Who_, nice…" His tone is warm, small rumbles of laughter still in his chest, and he bumps his shoulder to yours back. "But seriously, you need a watch. It's a special feeling. I have a collection..."

"Of course you do," you mumble under your breath, making sure he can still hear you. He grins, and his white teeth are a wonderful contrast to his beard.

"My father wore this one pair his whole life, he had several, but there was one Patek Philippe I always remember on his hand, and he left it to me. Some day I'll give it to my oldest son." There is no sentimentality in his tone, it's just a statement, and you are staring at him. It's like talking to an alien. He is an alien. From a different planet, where fathers wear expensive Swiss watch, give it to their sons, where people have family traditions. "Well, if I don't have a son, I have two nephews, Philip, the older one, will get my father's Patek then."

"What did he do? Your father?"

"He was a chemist. Worked in King's College London in 1950s, with Maurice Wilkins," there is unrestrained pride in his voice.

"Determination of DNA structure?" His eyebrows jump up, and he looks at you with admiration. It is a new feeling. You can't say it's unpleasant. "Great. You are also posh. Did you play conkers with Sarah, George, Emily and William on a lawn of your family mansion?" He guffaws again. It takes him a few seconds to calm down this time.

"Oh my goodness, Wren, how do you even know the names of his kids?" You smile wider. "We had a tiny flat when I was growing up, and my father wasn't fond of Wilkins. They fell out before Wilkins' successes, and my father would always say it was for the best. Since Wilkins had been a massive git even before the Prize." You giggle. It is so surreal, and you don't even want to know if he is lying through his teeth.

"So did he or did he not leak atomic secrets?" John shrugs and settles deeper in the blankets. You realized you haven't noticed when it became so warm.

"My father would say he wouldn't be surprised, but we'll never know. That's what I love about history. We can guess and assume, and it's never true and never false, and it changes through our perception, and history doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme."

"Seriously?" You laugh, "Now you are quoting Mark Twain?" He smiles back to you.

"Is there anything you don't know, Wren?" His voice a bit lower, but you are so enjoying this conversation that you forget to be alarmed.

"No, I'm an obsessive reader and have photographic memory. My head is full of useless knowledge. I can go to _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire_. Except I don't want to be a millionaire..." He is looking into your eyes, and that's when you finally realize that he isn't laughing anymore.

He has a strange expression and softly asks, "What do you want to be, Wren?"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hahaha, ****Borys****, only 6 mm? You are underestimating John :) **

**My idea was that he spends 47.68% of his time in one location and then has to spend an N amount of hours, determined by traffic, weather and the whims of fate, in an old mini-bus with a very poor AC, travelling to the other. I spent approx. 1.7 years in Egypt and wanted to share with my dear John the experience of a bird hitting one's radiator grid, the mini-bus swirling, and the thought in one's head, "Shite! That will be a very ugly death in an Egyptian ditch!" :D**

**A/N#2: ****Just4Me****, I put the "fever dream" idea of yours in :) I can always switch from my idea of their slow, convoluted, painful relationships building to her waking up the next morning and realizing he was never there :D Should I though? ;)**

You wish you knew. There are two opposite notions fighting in your head. One is to think and answer honestly. You don't know the answer, but you can try to find it. Another urge is to find just the right answer, that would please, that would impress, that would not convince him you are rubbish that you are, the one that would deceive him into believing you are worth something, because for the first time you actually don't want a conversation to stop. You forgot he was a man, you forgot he was scaring you, you forgot he was foreign, large, scorching, alien. You are warm, both your heads are at the back of the lilo, not too close, but close enough for you to see the darker blue edge of his irises, the little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the fluffy lashes. And then you feel tongue-tied. And then his face wavers, for a second he frowns, and then the expression is quickly replaced with another of his serene smiles.

"That was an odd question, sorry. I'm overtired. I couldn't fall asleep with all this cold, and the time difference..." He yawns tastily, and you exhale. "Are you sleepy? I can keep guard. I get it, the situation is slightly off, but do you think you can fall asleep? " Shockingly enough, you think you could. But you don't want to. You want to talk to him some more. You never can make your needs known though.

"I think, I can. But the lilo is honestly too small… We won't fit..." He is quiet, just smiling to you softly, and you clench your fists again. You breathe in, and then out, "We should move to the bed, probably. You know, lie down the same way we are right now, but in Thea's bed… It's wider than mine, and again, I really..." You don't want to sleep with him in your bed. It's yours, your world, your yellow roses on the bedding, you built it, you worked hard on it. You can't have his presence, his smell in your room, on your sheets. He will leave for the airport in the morning, and he will remain your fever dream from that day you were sick and there was a snow storm. Were he to spend a night in your bed, he'd be real. He'd never be gone.

He is studying your face. Had you not been that cold, you'd blush. There is something different in his eyes now, and there is some new emotion in you answering to this sudden heaviness in his looking. Besides your usual discomfort with strangers in general, and men in particular, there is also some odd anxiety. He feels more focused on you, and the alarm in your head is tolling.

"Are you certain? I mean, Wren, again, no pressure, but you are obviously..." He trails away.

"What?" It comes out louder and angrier than you planned. You immediately shrink back. But his eyes remain warm and soft.

"I'm no psychologist, Wren, but I would say it's PTSD, right? I saw the scars on your back, and your friend Thea was vague but she let me know that invading your personal space would be very upsetting for you. I mean we are already sitting together on the sofa, I honestly can survive one night..."

"I am not worrying about you, I am uncomfortable myself." It's a lie. Were you to shift a bit, you can curl into him and spend the most comfortable night in your life. He is studying you again. You understand he is trying to evaluate what would distress you more, pressing further or doing as you say. And suddenly you find it very irritating. He is no better than everyone else, he is treating you like a sick child. You jerk and try climbing out of the bundle of blankets he built around you two. The cold air licks and burns your skin when you jump on the floor, and you grab the blankets sharply. He is not moving, just sitting on the lilo, in his jeans and _I Heart Berlin_ sweater, and the ridiculous airplane socks. "We are moving to the bed." You drop couple blankets, wrap in your first one tighter, grab a candle and march into Thea's bedroom stomping angrily.

You fall on the bed and pull your legs up, trying to hide them in the leftover warmth of your now depleted cocoon. It obviously doesn't work, and your teeth chatter. He is moving in the living room, probably blowing out candles and picking up blankets. Everything is shaking inside you, and you hear your teeth grind. It's one of your symptoms, cold aggravates it, you can't stop your jaws from clenching. He finally comes it, with a large candle in a glass holder in his hand, and suddenly he comes to the bedside table near you and blows out the candle you brought with you. For that he needs to bend down, his massive body looming over you, and it's immediately much darker in the room. You can't help it, a whimper escapes your lips, and he straightens up and gives you an attentive look.

"Wren, are you certain?.."

"Can you please get in? I'm so cold..." Your voice is hardly audible, but your lips are probably blue, and he throws the blankets and the quilt over you. He slides underneath them and moves closer to you.

"I checked, that candle in the glass should be the safest, it has the longest burning life, and it's in glass after all," he put it on Thea's vanity, "In case we fall asleep." You nod, but it probably looks more like your head is jerking spasmodically. "Wren, you should move into me."

Since you already know how much warmer it is when you are close to him, you have no strength to doubt it anymore, and you press into him. The blanket you were wrapped into shifts, but you don't care about it. You curl into his side, your palm lies on his chest, and he moves, one of his upper arms under your neck. He is not hugging your shoulder, but you are now stretched along his body. But even this doesn't seem to bother you. Neither does his lifting his leg and pressing it over your feet. He is heavy, but you somehow know you can pull them from under him. It should feel restricting, but it doesn't. You two are lying in silence for a while, and you are starting to nod off.

At some point you can't control it anymore, you fall through some sort of darkness, and then your whole body jerks, and you wake up. You carefully move away from him and peek at his face. The eyes are closed, long lashes, the line of his lips relaxed, and right in front of your nose you see the black beard. It is very thick, whiskers look very coarse, and you feel the warmth coming from his skin.

"Are you ogling me?" His voice is very soft, but you jump up. He opens one eye and looks at you askew. You kick him under the blankets.

"Damn you, John, you scared me! You yourself have just so smartly diagnosed me with PTSD, and now you are scaring me shitless." He closes the eye, and you can see the corners of his lips twitch.

"Don't be gormless, Wren. I was very delicate. To scare you shitless would be to turn sharply and bite you." You are staring at him. "Or kiss you. No, I was very considerate."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Worry not, my darlings, it's not a dream, it's not some new therapy, and he is not her doctor :) It's a convoluted, slow building, soppy romance novel plot :)**

The buzzing in your ears starts. It's a so called dissociative symptom. Your mind clouds your surroundings, trying to protect you from feeling threatened emotionally or physically. You close your eyes and feel his body go rigid near you.

"God, Wren, I'm sorry. I am being a friggin idiot. I haven't thought how it sounded." He sounds very remorseful and starts moving away from you. Your press your palm into his chest to stop him, and he freezes. "I'm sorry, really, just blurted the first thing that came to my mind…"

"I have never been molested, if that's what you are thinking," you hear your own monotonous tone, and under your palm his body jolts. You open your eyes and look into his wide open ones, his face aghast and lost for the first time since you've known him. It hasn't been long but you would never expect such expression on his face. "So stop fussing, please. References to kissing do not freak me out." It is a lie as well. You are fighting nausea and the ringing in your ears exactly because he said it.

"Wren," he sounds almost angry, "Let's agree right now, you are going to tell me when I'm being a pillock, OK? I was insensitive and presumptuous, please, stop defending me." He is frowning, the black thick eyebrows drawn together, and you immediately deflate. Just a second ago you tried to be nonchalant about your trauma, now you are feeling like apologising for it. You are confused, and then a comforting thought comes. You just have to last a few hours. He'll be gone in the morning.

"You are not being a pillock. We both were just joking," you doubt your face compiles with what you just said. He is contemplating you, and to wrap up this stupid episode you settle back into his arms, and to prove him again that nothing happened you move even closer than before. You didn't know that people of such different heights and anatomies can actually fit well. You always assumed it's the stuff of romantic films. It's not. Your head is under his clavicle, your palm on his chest over his heart, and you tuck your feet under his calf. You ask yourself if you wanted him to say he wasn't joking, and then you squish this thought down. He will leave in the morning, and maybe you need an appointment with your therapist. You will have a lot to process.

You two sleep for a few hours. He fell asleep first. No nightmares came, you open your eyes peacefully. The candle died out but it is not completely dark in the room. You assume it's close to dawn already, probably half past seven or so. You realize the two of you haven't shifted much, but now his hand is covering yours on his chest. It feels so good that you are almost ready to believe all other romantic cliches right now. Also, your leg decided that wrapping around his is very comfortable.

You decide that a limb has no right to decide anything and start slowly pulling it back and off him. He sniffles, you pause for a couple moments. And then you resume your action. And then your knee bumps into his erection. Or at least you think that's what it is, and not a D Cell Maglight in his pocket. You really should have taken your leg off him more promptly as opposed to rubbing it to him. He makes a funny sleepy noise and suddenly pulls you in and nuzzles your neck.

"You smell nice..." His sleep voice is all rasp and purr. He rolls into you and wraps all around you. Instead of freaking out and thrashing in his arms overwhelmed with the intrusive memories of previous abuse, you giggle. His long nose twitches, and altogether he looks very cute. That is if one can apply the word "cute" to a six feet four hench bloke with a shoulder length mane and a massive torso. You regulate your breathing and listen to your inner reaction. You are probably feeling so much calmer because you survived the night. You stretch your hand, and the bedside lamp lights up. You try to reach your cell phone, but he is like a giant squid, you try to wiggle out but to no avail. He squeezes you tighter and mumbles, "Five more minutes..." You are absolutely in the dark what one is supposed to do in the situation like that.

"John… You have to let me go..." He hums as if agreeing and doesn't move a single muscle. Except he presses his pelvis into you harder. That makes it a bit scarier. A half clear memory returns, another arm wrapped around your shoulders the same way. "John, let me go!" You raise your voice, and his eyes fly open. He pushes from you and rolls on the other side of the bed.

"I'm sorry, so sorry… God, the bloody bear hugging again..." He is mumbling and rubs his face with his hands. "Sorry, I do that… In my sleep, like an octopus..." For some unexplainable reason you find it extremely funny. First you giggle, and then start straightforward laughing. You can't control it.

"Have you already had complains?" He is blinking frantically, trying to understand where he is. His eyes focus on you, and he smiles hesitantly.

"Yeah, apparently I am impossible to sleep with..." He sits up and ruffles his hair. It's time to admit you like the hair. You might even want to touch it. He is leaving soon, you might not get a chance. "Are you OK? I mean out of all people you are the last one to enjoy this treatment." You feel a prickle of irritation. You'd prefer no referring to your history. "You are like a small bird… Ickle..." He gestures all over you, and you pull the blanket to your chin. He notices the movement, "God, I'm making it worse. I didn't mean your past and didn't want to say you are too skinny… Just... Bugger..." He falls back on the bed and throws an arm over his eyes. "I'm being a berk..."

"Yeah, a bit." You confirm. You want him to leave already. He is bothering you. You don't like being bothered, you prefer to stay numb. And now that the heating is back, you have no excuse to touch him.

He groans from under the arm but it is so overdramatic that you snort. He peeks from under it, laughter in his eyes, and draws in a funny whiny voice, "Can we please have breakfast? I'm much better after coffee."

"Better at what?" You are still smiling, when he suddenly lowers his arm and looks at you completely seriously.

"At talking heart to heart."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Poor Kili in this chapter has RagdollPrincess to thank for all that is described about him :) her writing of him is canon for me now, and he is paying for it :)**

You go rigid, and your toes curl. That's another thing of yours. You could never understand what they mean by "he kissed her and made her toes curl." For you it's a symptom of hardly contained dread.

"Are we going to have a heart to heart?" Your voice is squeaky, and he nods. He jumps off the bed and heads out of the room.

"I'll use your bathroom and then will start coffee." He turns around. "Or do you have tea in the morning? There was some Assam in the cupboard. I can make eggs..." That's when you flip.

"It's my flat! I should be making eggs!" He is back into his blissful persona already.

"Sure, even better." He gives you a wide smile and leaves for bathroom. You are sitting in the middle of the bed and absolutely don't understand what's going on.

You start coffee and tea, and are in a process of making eggs in the basket when he shows up. He looks criminally good in the morning, all fresh and elegant even in his airport clothes, his hair in a loose bun. If you actually cared about how you looked, you'd be terrified. Your pale skin in the morning is greenish, purple shadows lie under your sunken eyes. You push the spatula into his hand and go to the bathroom to brush your teeth. It smells like his soap in the bathroom, and you pretend you are not thinking about it.

When you come back the breakfast is arranged on the table. He even found some scones in the freezer and warmed them up. You tuck yourself on a chair, and he picks up the teapot.

"Shall I be mother?" He gives you a lopsided smirk to show he is taking a piss, but you are so nervous that all you can do is nod. Your usual breakfast is a cuppa and some corn flakes, but you diligently start on your eggs. He sighs wistfully.

"Pity you have no cheese..." You momentarily feel it's somehow your fault, and then you remind yourself that no one actually invited him here. He pours an obscene amount of cream in his coffee, adds seemingly twenty spoons of sugar, stirs and takes a sip. His eyes squint in an obvious pleasure, and you realize you are staring at his throat. You drop your eyes into your eggs and chew. The breakfast passes in silence, you don't dare lifting your eyes, when he finally puts down his fork and takes a big gulp of his coffee flavoured cream syrup.

"So, Wren, I think we should talk." You hide behind your tea mug. "Would you be OK with that?" His tone is even and friendly, and that's when it clicks. You jerk your face up.

"You actually know what you are doing!" Your voice is shrieky, but even this doesn't brass him off. He is quiet, allowing you to elaborate. "You don't flail your hands, you take little space, you keep your voice calm, you avoid agitating me! You are going by the book!" You jump up on your feet, and he remains at the table, his hands relaxed on the surface. You see red. "Damn, and there I thought I was actually getting comfortable with a bloke! You are therapizing me!"

"Wren..."

"Get out! God, I was such an idiot! Did you google PTSD on your way to the flat? Did Thea tell you about my foster father, and you read up on it on your way here?! Bollocks!" You are screaming and don't care. "Get out of my flat! The light is back, call a cab!"

"Wren..."

"Bugger off!" You rush out of the kitchen and slam the door to your room behind you. You feel so agitated that you make a few circles around the room, your fingers clenching and unclenching, and you can't take a proper breath in. You feel angry, mad, disappointed, you feel sick. You feel like he betrayed you. It's absurd, but you don't care. He didn't owe you anything, he is not your friend, and not anything else you might have imagined for a second there. He might be married or gay.

There is a knock at your door, "Wren, we need to talk." A soft, even tone throws you off, and suddenly you can't breathe. You dash in the corner, slide down the wall and wrap your arms around your knees. _Wren, we need to talk. I had a call from your teacher, Wren. Do you want to tell me what happened in school today? _You press your hands to your ears. _Think carefully about what you are going to say, Wren. _"Wren, my nephews served in Afghanistan, one of them came back with PTSD. But I'm not using any techniques on you… Wren, listen to me. I did try to be careful with you, but I honestly don't flail my hands when I talk, and I do not inflect a lot when I speak. Wren, can I please come in?" If you keep quiet, he will leave. You are almost certain he will. You think you understand him better now, he is not going to press. "Wren, I am worried about you, and I'm responsible for you at the moment. So you need to tell me you are alright or let me in." You were wrong. He has a dominant authoritative tone, and you react at it as a well trained dog.

You answer before you can stop yourself, "You can come in..."

He opens the door and walks in confidently. You concentrate on his movements again. He is endlessly corporeal, all flesh and heat, the hair, the beard, the tanned skin, all of it warm and fruity, and smoky, and his soap smells like juniper, and you feel the buzzing in your ears subside. He sits on your bed, on the very edge, on the other side from the corner you squished yourself into. Whatever he says, he is acting the smartest way one can behave around a person with the complex post-traumatic stress disorder. You tense your jaw. Once you calmed down a bit, you immediately start getting a bit cheesed off.

"I have two nephews. The older one is a professional military. Their father was, all his family is in the army actually. The younger one has always followed his brother, and I should have stopped it, but he enlisted as well. He returned with PTSD. He is in therapy now. But, Wren," he places his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers. "I didn't know about your past when I came here, I just needed to spend a night somewhere." He gives you a warm look. "I'm not therapizing you, as you put it. I'm not even doing a very good job being smart around you. I said I wanted to kiss you last night, if you don't remember. That would be the worst thing to say to a person who has been abused, don't you think?" You lift your eyes at him. He didn't say he wanted to kiss you then. He joked about kissing. You guess, he is saying it now.


	10. Chapter 10

You wrap your arms around your shoulders, "And you think having a nephew with a PTSD gives you a right to judge what I need? To meddle?"

"Wren..." You haven't known him for long, but you already hate this condescending tone of his, as if he is talking to a child or a terminally ill. "I just tried to make you comfortable, that's all."

"Well, I'm not. I'm not comfortable with a man in my flat, with having no choice but to sleep with you, and share breakfast that I don't even eat, and you doing my dishes! And I'm especially not comfortable with being manipulated!" By the end of the sentence you are loud. You don't want to be loud. You want to hide under the blanket with your head and be sure you are alone. You feel suffocated even though he on the other end of the room. You should have run into Thea's room. Now you will forever have the memory of him sitting on your bed. He can leave now, the coverage is back, he can call the cab. He is studying you.

"I'll be out of your flat in fifteen minutes, I already called the cab. But you have to listen to me first." You curl in an even tighter ball. You have no power here, you can't make him leave the room, and the lack of control makes it hard to breathe. The hearing and vision blur, and you close your eyes. "Wren, please, I know I'm adding to your suffering here, but I don't see any other way out. I like you, Wren. I need you to know it, and I want to discuss _us_..." He emphasizes the last word, and your eyes fly open. There is no "us." You are staring at him, he is calmly looking at you.

"Do you have a saviour complex or something? Is that what's it all about? Because if you are attracted to me, then you have bigger issues and it's you who needs therapy..."

"Would you please stop talking?" His tone is calm, but you are suddenly reminded that he is massive, and very, very strong physically. It makes you whimper and press into the wall even harder. He groans and rubs his face with his palms. "Sorry, but seriously… I know what you are doing right now, it's your defense mechanism… Killian had it too, he'd start insulting us… and then he would be violent… Wren, I am the oldest, I am doing great in life and I most definitely do have a god complex and a saviour complex, and I'm an arrogant, conceited prick, but I assure you, I have learnt a lot since I got my boy back. I'll try not to repeat my mistakes with you. I learnt my lesson, Wren." There is a sudden heaviness in his eyes. You haven't seen him like that yet.

"Which is what exactly?" Your tone is tense.

"People don't need fixing. Wren, you had horrible things done to you, but they always say it to you in therapy, and I will repeat it. It's not who you are, it's a crime of another person. And I _like _you, Wren. Did you hear me? I like _you_. I've never liked a woman so quickly before. We chatted, you laughed, and I just need..." He clenches his jaw, and you are so confused that all you can do is continue staring at him. "Let's just give it a try, OK? You and I, a coffee shop… Or whatever it is that you do. A bookshop?" One of the walls of your bedroom is one big built-in bookcase. He throws a hopeful look at you. But if he is expecting you to say something, he knows less about the disorder than he thinks. You also think that he is either dim, or masochistic. And then you think that most likely he is just a liar. He is obviously into broken chicks, maybe even one of those Daddy Dom men, no judgement, but... Apparently your assumptions are reflected on your face, because he sighs. "Wren, I'm going to leave you my card on the living room table, and I'll call your landline once I'm back from Rio in a month, OK?" You throw a quick look at the clock on the wall, his fifteen minutes are almost up. He sighs again. "Or you could write me an email… Wren, damn it, can you please look at me?" You jump up from his suddenly louder, firmer voice. Your eyes meet, and you see he is irritated. You gulp. "Wren, if you want I can pronounce some soppy speech here, tell you that I find you interesting, charming, unusual, sexy, but I just need you to give it a go when I'm back from Rio. Talk to your therapist about it, don't know… I'm not a perv, I'm not attracted to your history, I just think that we could work. OK?" The pause stretches. "Wren, could you please shake your head or nod, or something..? A blink would work too," He smirks slightly, you notice he looks slightly uncertain, and something clicks in your head.

"Call me when you are back from Rio. I'll email you my mobile." He exhales loudly in an obvious relief.

"Goodness, Wren, you are making me work hard here… Blokes are not good in flowery confessions, you know?" You smile back tentatively, and his eyes run over your face. "Write me an email, please. Asking you for Skype is pushing it of course, but honestly, a simple "hi" would make me very happy. OK?" You nod. You are lying, but there is a bit less buzzing in your ears when he is smiling, and you want to keep it this way. He gets up and pushes his hands deep in his pockets. You decide you should probably have a good look at him. You won't see him for a month. And then you feel surprised, you meant you wouldn't see him ever.

Adrenaline pumping in your veins makes your perception sharper. He is indeed a gorgeous specimen. A mental shoulder to waist ratio, long legs, somehow his loud masculinity doesn't frighten you, probably because he'll be out of your life in three and a half minutes. He is all warm colours, the tanned skin, the soft waves of the dark hair, the thick beard that you just can't stop thinking about, even the blue eyes are not icy, there is a smile in them, and to your own shock you get up. You can't come up to him, but you feel a bit freer.

"Not to freak you out, Wren," his voice is suddenly lower, but you are busy staring at his neck, "But I do find you very fit. So we are talking about dating here, and not just friendly chats over overpriced coffee, capisce?" Your face at the moment probably looks like the Munch painting.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you, ****my loveliest****, for the support and your reviews! I hold this particular story very dear, and I'm endlessly excited that you seem to be enjoying it as well :)**

**A/N#2: Welcome, ****ChrisDurin****, in the story! Good to have you with us :)**

**A/N#3: Don't be shy to peek on my Pinterest page under the same penname for visual inspirations :)**

_46 days later…_

You didn't listen to your therapist. You didn't email John. You explained to her again and again how you were not ready, that he was just not the right person, then that he was scaring you, that you thought that him having a nephew with the disorder was a circumstance that would prevent the two of you form the healing relationships. Pretty much you quoted all possible psychology articles that your therapist had previous prohibited you to read, since "the net is full of rubbish." You love your therapist, and most of the time you trust her, but every time it was time to hit "Send" you'd freak out and save it as a draft. There are 34 emails in your Draft folder.

You thought of him every day, but the landline has never rung. Since you mostly work from home, you are certain he hasn't called. You made a decision to believe that he changed his mind. It makes perfect sense. Once the strange ambience of the night has dissipated, he obviously remembered that he is a super fit hench bloke and women throw themselves at him, and you are an ugly, broken, skinny ginger with nothing to offer.

The phone rings, and you fall off your desk chair you were previously twirling on. Your throat goes dry, and you can't seem to remember how to walk. You limp to the living room, you have painfully hit your hip, and also an elbow, and repeat to yourself it's not him. It takes eleven it's-not-him's to pick up the phone.

"Hello, Wren." His voice is just as velvet and smoky as you remembered, and you slide on the floor, pulling your knees to your nose. You are tucked between the lilo he slept on that night and an armchair, and you breathe out into the phone.

"Hi..."

"Have you eaten today?" It's seven o'clock at night, and you haven't. You forget. There is a reminder set on your mobile, but you left it in the bathroom when brushing teeth in the morning.

"No… Yes… What?"

"I'm back in the city and was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me. There is this lovely Thai place near your flat, Jimmy told me about it. Do you like Thai? I'm open to any options. Just not Lebanese, I've had too much of it in the last month." You feel like yelling that forty six days are not a month.

His tone is irritatingly calm and even again. Your therapist told you that perhaps your suspecting that he was purposefully keeping this unnaturally light tone with you was your own defence mechanism, and perhaps he was just that kind of a person. You did a mental exercise when you tried remembering him in an agitated state and comparing it to his general disposition to establish the baseline. He seemed sincerely upset when he thought he frightened you in the morning. You have to concede, most of his expressions were subtle even then, slight twitches of brows, movements of the corners of his mouth, only the eyes were expressive. He had glorious laughter though, a nice fruity guffaw. Maybe he is just mellow. But you are shaking and feel very cold at the moment, so you can't think straight.

"I'm sorry... But I'm engaged at the moment." You sound unconvincing even for your own ears, "I have this project, and I'm already late..."

"Wren, if you don't go with me now, you will never have enough courage. How about twenty minutes? I'll pick you up. It's only five minute walk from your place, we'll have dinner, chat, you can leave any moment. It's not fancy, just throw a winter jacket over whatever you are wearing." And then he adds in a silly sing-song voice, "I brought you a souvenir." You can imagine his smile as clearly as if he was standing in front of you.

"Um..." Thea is not home, you have no one to ask.

"Nineteen minutes, Wren," his voice is even more chuffed now. "I'll buzz you from downstairs. Don't worry, I remember the address. Cheers." And he hangs up. You can't believe it, he had the nerve to hang up on you. He was right though, you had nothing.

You breathe heavily for four and a half minutes. You have the perfect perception of time, which tends to slightly aggravate your mild OCD. Then you pick yourself up from the floor, go to the bathroom and splash cold water on your face. You dry it and look in the mirror. You realize you haven't done it in at least three days. You are not fond of it.

It feels odd, like looking at a stranger. You don't seem to remember this face. You are paler than usual, but it's probably from the nerves. The lips are bright red, you've been biting them since you heard his voice. You are 90% sure you are not going to open the door when he buzzes. Your hair is sticking out around your head, you are wearing an old sweater, your disgustingly skinny collar bones visible in the stretched collar. You have bruise on your neck, yesterday you managed to bump into a cupboard door in the kitchen because you were reading on your phone when making your cuppa, and you are grateful the mirror is so tall. You see enough to panic, you don't need to look lower at the area where your tits should be and even more so at the bony hips. There is a pair of old denim on you, wide and baggy, and socks with Tardises. His idea that you can just throw a parka on and they will let you into a restaurant is, to put it mildly, optimistic.

You rush to your room and start rummaging through your clothes. You know there is nothing there to look for, but media brainwashing works. Six minutes and two sweaters later you hear the buzzer. You wince. Firstly, it's only been thirteen and a half minutes. Secondly, you hate the moments when you have to make a decision.

Even more so you hate the moments when you have no choice. He is not leaving you any. You drag yourself to the door and buzz him in. You quickly push your feet into winter boots and grab the parka from the closet. A hat and a scarf follow, and the door opens.


	12. Chapter 12

He looks better than you remember. He looks better than it's legal. His skin is even more tanned, cheekbones slightly flushed from the frosty outside air. He is smiling widely, a thick scarf wrapped around his neck, the fur on the hood of his stylish parka seems very fluffy, and you drop your eyes on his dark denim. You are not so off with your baggy jeans and an oversized stripy sweater.

He moves with astonishing speed, his glove covered hand is suddenly on your shoulder, just lying, no pressure, and he presses his surprisingly warm lips to your cheek. You gasp, and he releases you and straightens up. He needed to bend significantly, the top of your head hardly reaches the aforementioned scarf.

"Evening. Ready?" You open your mouth, but his white toothed grin stems your breathing. He gives you a look over, and you consider hurried retreat in the depth of your flat. "You'll need gloves. It's brass monkeys out there." You close your mouth that was apparently half opened and obediently pick up and pull on your mitts.

He grabs your hand and pulls you out of the flat. He doesn't give you a second to doubt, he is already marching down the stairs, and all you can do is concentrate on how erect posture and bipedal locomotion in humans work. Either seems to be a slight barney at the moment.

You are suddenly outside, large flakes of snow falling vertically from the sky, and he tucks your arm around his.

"How was your month?" Once again you want to yell that forty six days are more than a month.

"Great," you sound like a third grader doing a presentation in school, "Lots of work. I am involved in a new interesting project. How was your trip?"

"Oh, magnificent! We are bringing a new exposition home actually. Great success," he continues listing the artefacts and blabbering about the dates and pharaohs, while confidently steering you through streets. You realise where the two of you are going. You haven't been at that place, but it did indeed look very good. You are fighting rising nausea.

Somehow at the top of your head you are terrified of the moment when you'll have to take off your coat. All your clothes are very expensive, you used magazines to match them. You also have very little, you work from home mostly. They are stylish, they are just bland. You use them to hide yourself. They are like armour, baggy and thick, and you ask yourself whether he'll think that you are not making an effort when going out with him. Thea says you look like a nun, and when she is especially frustrated with your clothes she calls them "Wren's uniform." You never learnt to choose or wear accessories. The only merry item you have is the penguin robe she gave you. Besides that one the rest are greys and blacks.

You realise he asked you a question, and you immediately panic, "Pardon?"

"I asked if you liked the Christmas Special. I traditionally watch it with my sister and nephews, but this year they were in Brazil for Christmas, and I didn't get a chance to watch it since then." It takes you a few seconds to realize he is talking about _Doctor Who. _You should be grateful, he chose a good topic, you liked the Special, especially the memory worm thing, but you suddenly dig your heels into the snow, and since he is walking in wide strides, your arm slips from around his.

"Really?! That is what we are going to be talking about?!" You are screaming so loudly that a couple walking by turns to look at you. "God, for how long are you going to be pussypfooting around me? You are so sweet that I think I'm going to have cavities!" He is looking at you in confusion. He is still smiling slightly, and that pumps even more adrenaline into your veins. Your synopses fry.

"Wren, I have no idea where that came from. I honestly just wanted to know what you think about Clara..."

"Oh, now you know that the new companion's name is Clara, and just a moment ago you said you haven't seen it! God, can you be any more manipulative?! Have you come up with a list of safe topics in your head? What can John ask, so that Wren doesn't turn into a psycho!" Your voice is hysterical, and it's shrieky. You hate this voice of yours. "The next thing you are going to say you don't know she dies at the end!"

He is standing in the middle of the street, and then he drops his head back and starts laughing loudly. It stops you in your tracks, it is so out of place, and you are taking deep spasmodic breaths in. Your hands are shaking, after the outburst, palms clammy, heart thrashing. Your mind separates into two as it often happens. On one hand, you are still confused and angry. You feel betrayed, you feel he is finagling you. On the other hand, his sincere merry laughter has thrown you off.

"Oh, Wren, you've just spoilt the Christmas Special for me! I've seen the promo photos and thought it was neat they brought that fit little bird back, and now I'll watch it and know she dies again…" He is still chuckling and then looks at you warmly and calmly. "Wren, I am not manipulating you." He places his palm over his heart. "I swear to you, I wanted to know what you think. Considering the Tardis tattoo and the authentic Third Doctor poster in your kitchen I thought your opinion would count." You feel suddenly very tired, your head heavy and thrumming, and you sway. He jerks his hand up but doesn't touch you.

People with your history need to be asked before being touched. Additional consent has to be acquired. And something tells you he is aware. He pretty much manhandled you out of your flat, and now he is not touching you. So you ask an indirect question hoping he'll answer the one you have in your mind of why he was so inconsiderate at the beginning of the evening.

"Why are you dragging me to the dinner, John?" He is studying your face. You see in his eyes he understands.

"I'm sorry for my rashness before, Wren. I was just afraid you'd change your mind and scamper..." His face is suddenly slightly insecure, and you wonder if he is a good actor. "I missed you, Wren. It sounds absurd, we had one night, but I missed you. I waited for your email, and thought I wouldn't pressure you, but when I saw you, I just couldn't help it..." He looks almost embarrassed, and you listen to your inner doubts. You think that maybe you want to believe him. It's progress already.

"Can we please go have some khanom chin kaeng kiao wan kai?" He is giving you a hopeful, slihgtly mischievous look.

"Do they serve roti with it?" You feign haughtiness, and he guffaws.

"Is there anything you don't know, Wren?" You remember the same phrase and the same amused expression on his face after you were discussing Wilkins. Impressing him feels nice.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: The soundtrack for this story is definitely the greatest hits by Chris Rea. While writing this chapter, I had _I Just Wanna Be With You_ in my earphones.**

**A/N#2: My darling dearreader, of course you are not being a blockhead. Obviously this Wren is hard to like. As many people with her trauma, she is paranoid, she explodes for no good reason. The violence done to such people often manifests in them in rage and aggression, they channel their fear and trauma into anger. It is hard to experience, but it is even harder to bear witness to. But I guess this John sees something in her that is worth fighting for and being patient about :)**

**A/N#3: GuestReaderA, thank you for introducing me to _Iron and Wine_! :) They are magnificent. The chapter after this one will have their soundtrack :)**

Four dates pass the same way. You go through the same cycle of a surge of adrenaline when he rings, suffocating nauseating panic when you need to get ready, he doesn't leave you much time though, it's always a last moment arrangement and you go with it, and the painful rigid state through your dinners. It's awkward all through it, every minute you are thinking you want to run. The moments when you are comfortable are rare. You forget yourself, you start chatting, and then you stop. He is being clever, there are safe topic that actually make you talk. Doctor Who, he's watched it since he was a kid, the new book by Margaret Atwood, the weather, Thea, Kitkat OS that he knows nothing about but seems sincerely interested in, polar bears that you loved since you were a child and he actually had encounters with in Churchill. He is well read, witty, and endlessly nonchalant. You sometimes get stuck, some of your own words frighten you, and you drop your eyes into your ramen. It's always Asian cuisine, small places, exceptionally good. For a person who travels around the world most of the year, he knows all the best spots. You eat more and more regularly that you ever have. Most of the time you also have to fight an urge to stare at him. That fruity, warm laziness of his movements that you noticed the first night is fascinating. You stare at the chopsticks moving in his long fingers, the way his cheek protrudes when he is chewing a large dumpling, the way the beard moves. You are certain he knows what you are doing, but he never acknowledges your ridiculous ogling. If he happens to catch your eyes, he gives you a sunny close mouthed smile. With food behind his cheek it is additionally adorable.

He walks you home, leans in the same way he did the very first unfortunate evening of the date in the Thai place, catches your eyes and waits for you to nod allowing him. You do, and he quickly presses his lips to your cheekbone and with a merry "cheers" he watches you disappear behind the door. After nine kisses you are anticipating the next one. His lips are always warm, even if you've just walked for half an hour in the snowy evening, the beard slightly scratches your skin, and at the end of date four when he does, you suddenly shift your head and the kiss lands closer to your lips. He freezes for a second, the tip of his long nose pressed to your cheek, and then he straightens up. You are obviously blushing like a Myrica fruit. You are expecting a witty remark, and he suddenly smiles openly and sincerely.

"I feel like I'm thirteen and have never done it before." His voice is soft, and you clench your hands in the mittens. "All the sexual frustration aside, I am really enjoying our dates, Wren."

All you hear is "sexual frustration." He leans again, you nod weakly, and he presses his lips to your cheek, much firmer than ever before. You feel his breath on your skin first, and your spine turns into an icicle. Moving away from you, he slightly turns his face and his warm cheek grazes yours, the beard surprisingly pleasant. "You are driving me mad..." His whisper is very quiet, and you are staring at him. His eyes are dark, and that's when you feel very scared. You step back, your arms wrap around your middle, and the expression in his blue irises change.

"I'm sorry, Wren, I didn't want to frighten you." You shake your head and take a measured breath in. He is frowning, and you don't know how to fix it. You feel horrible, you ruined it all.

"Wren, we either need to go upstairs and talk over a cuppa, or I'll go home now, and ring you tomorrow. What's the plan, Stan?" His speech is full of silly mannerisms, you always get surprised by them, but recently you started thinking you like them. Right now your first impulse is to run though.

"I know it's not you… I mean, it's not you I'm frightened of. I've been in therapy long enough to distinguish between a trigger and an actual source of fear." You mumble, and he gives you an attentive look. "When I am reminded that you are physically strong… I get scared, I'm scared that you are male, that you are tall and strong… And it's just suffocating me, but I'm not afraid of you..." You are stammering, your cheeks burning, you are in a hurry to explain. You lift your eyes at him, he has his hands pushed deep in the pockets of his denim. There is a crease between his eyebrows, and you gulp.

"Wren, forgive me, but I am having a moment of insecurity here. Just tell me. Do you even like me or am I twisting your arm into all these dinners? Am I right in my assumption that you wouldn't be able to say no to me even if you didn't want to go?"

"I do!" You are suddenly loud. It's almost a shout. You are panicked, it's like acid spilling on your guts. You have just imagined he will leave and won't call again.

"You do what?" He lifts his eyebrows in confusion. Your mouth goes dry, but you push yourself.

"I do like you," you croak. "And I am trying… I am sorry… I am really trying..." Your voice breaks, and you feel tears stinging your eyes. You feel so stupid. He steps forward, and his arm wraps around your shoulders. He pulls you in in a sharp movement, and you are hit by his smell and warmth so quickly that although you tense, the moment of panic is short, and you manage to stay calm. His other hand is hanging along his body passively, and the terror you've expected doesn't come. Instead, your arms go around his middle, and you sob.

"You are doing great, kiddo. I'd throw myself out already. Or report me. I honestly feel like I'm torturing you..." His voice is slightly shaky. He is more emotional that he's shown before.

"You are not at the moment..." You don't know where that came from. He chuckles. You spend a few moments frozen on the steps of your building.

"You are just the perfect size," he murmurs softly, and you press into his more. You suddenly remember how he felt under the blankets in Thea's freezing bedroom. And then you remember how he wrapped around you "like a bloody octopus," and you close your eyes. Maybe you can do it. Maybe it's not that scary. You don't want him to let you go.

"We can't stand like this forever..." You weren't planning it but your voice sounds wistful. He chuckles again.

"True. Eventually one of us will need to pee." You snort at his ridiculous joke, but then you tense. You have seen enough romcoms to understand the logical next step is to invite him up.

He shifts and rubs his cheek to the crown of your head. "How about this," his voice is warm and calm, and you feel immediately better. "Next time I'm inviting you to my place. Thus I'm not invading your territory, and we can stand like this in my living room as long as we want." He can't see it, but you are doing the Munch impersonation again.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: This one is for ****GuestReaderA**** to celebrate the glorious song by **_**Iron and Wine**_** "Freedom Hangs Like Heaven" :)**

You decide to have dinner at his place a week later, and the night before that day you are screaming in your bed at the top of your lungs. Thea rushes in, there seems to be some cooling down in her relationships with Jimmy, she spends more time home.

She turns on the light, and you roll off the bed and squeeze yourself in the space under your desk. You used to do it when you would get scared in that house. The desk was the only furniture in your room besides the bed. Suddenly you remember sitting under that desk, hearing the steps of your foster father behind the door, your sisters' screams. You press your palms over your ears and curl in an even tighter ball. You repeat to yourself, it is over, you got out, but you are shaking, every nerve in your body flaring up.

"Wrennie," Thea's voice is soft. "Wrennie, it's alright. It's me… Do you want to come out? Tell me what you need, Wrennie..." You shake your head. If you knew how to fix this you wouldn't be sitting under this desk. Thea is giving you concerned looks, you meet her eyes. "Wren, I've never seen you like that before..." You are good at hiding it. "Are you sure you want to go to this bloke's place? I mean Jimmy swore on his mum's grave John was a brick… But honestly..." You lower your hands.

"It's OK, just a bad dream..."

"Oh don't give me all this poppycock, Wren," her tone is irritated. "I am no psychologist, and I don't know what's your deal. I respect your boundaries, Wren, but I'm not watching some pillock saunter in your life and arse it up. I heard you crying in the bath last night, you are not sleeping, you are skinnier than before, as if it were even possible. Sod it, Wren, the bloke is not good for you!"

She is wrong. It's not his fault. You know it's not. And you need to defend him. You need to tell her what your therapist told you. Trying to go out with him is an attempt to stop "avoiding and not taking responsibility for moving your life in a valued, meaningful, and purposeful direction."

You know one thing for sure. You want to try. For the first time although you are terrified, panicked, confused and, as many of the C-PTSD patients, angry, you still want to try. He is bothering you, you are twice as tired at the end of the day nowadays, your nerves are constantly in frenzy, your nightmares are worse. But when you are ready to give up, you don't. You think about his warm lips on your cheek, of the fluffy lashes, you see them flutter when he leans down to kiss you, waiting for your approval, of his large hands lying on a tablecloth of yet another Vietnamese restaurant, and you can't let it go.

You see him in your nightmares of course. You see him instead of your foster father, him hitting you, him dragging you across the floor of that bathroom. You see your blood from the knees cut on the broken mirror, the same nauseatingly greenish tiles, his voice instead of the other one calling you a useless whore and a liar. You wake up with a scream, but you take measured breaths, you are being mindful, you separate the two men in your head, and when John calls you pick up. You drag yourself to your wardrobe, you choose yet another pair of baggy denim, another boring sweater, and for once, you pray to all deities, which you don't believe in, that he has patience for just one more dinner.

You don't know at what point you stopped doubting his interest in you a hundred per cent of the time, and switched to ninety four, and when you started having those moments when you are just astonished that he is still calling and still going out with you. You don't know where these moments when you believe that he sees something in you come from. But then you are even more terrified. You will get used to them, and he will understand he is wrong. There is nothing in you to like. And then you almost hate him. For the happiness you feel when you get a glimpse of hope, and for the shadow of the warmth you are clutching at.

You send Thea away from your room, she doesn't want to, but after a while she leaves throwing you one last concerned and vexed look. You won't sleep anymore, you pull your camera out of your closet, and sit on the window sill. You take a few photos of the frost on the glass, the snowflakes in a fluffy pile on the other side, and then you just sit and watch the snow falling in the light of the streetlamp.

You sit for three hours, until the dawn comes, and a decision is born in you. You are going to take John's photograph. You have never taken any photos of people, except for work, your personal models always being inanimate objects. You are aware enough to understand that you don't photograph objects, you photograph your emotions at any given moment in time. They are neatly organized in folders in your laptop, and you refer to them as your diary. You think it is time for a face to be in that diary. John's face seems to be the most logical choice.

You take a sheet of paper and make a draft. You imagine the lines, the wonderful bridge of his nose, the warm darkness of his beard, the lashes that you can't stop thinking about, the soft line of his lips, and you follow your own drawing with the tips of your fingers. You don't notice how you start crying but these are good tears, tears of being tired of being afraid, tears of the hunger for normality, for balance, for warmth, for healing. You leave the drawing and the camera on your desk, which you never do, your OCD not allowing you any changes in the organization of your room, and you crawl under your blanket. You are getting warm again, your legs pulled to your chest, and you stare at the white of the paper and the black of the camera. You don't notice how you fall asleep. This time nightmares don't come. You are woken up by ringing of your mobile.


	15. Chapter 15

"Hello, Wren," John's voice seems distressed, and you immediately tense. You croak in return, and he rushes in, "Wait, did I wake you up? I'm sorry..."

"It's alright," you quickly check the clock on the wall. It's 11.48. He'll think you are a bone-idle slop. "I've just slept in, no biggie..."

"Are you feeling alright?" There is a new intonation in his question. You realise he is offering you an exit strategy. You can say you are sick and relieve yourself from the dinner duty.

"I'm alright, just having a lie-in," you give out an unnatural chuckle. He should be giving you points for not jumping at the opportunity of fleeing. You think he is. He returns the chuckle, his is warm and sincere.

"You should sometimes. They are ace. Especially with some biscuits. But something tells me you don't eat biscuits under your blankets." Your constantly vigilant brain comes up with five explanations to this assumptions of his. None of them is pleasant. They include you being disgustingly skinny and not eating biscuits in general, also you being an OCD sicko and only eating in the kitchen, and you being just generally uptight. "I have to say I fell in love with your sheets. It would be a crime to eat on them. Always forget to ask you, but where did you get them?"

You breathe out, and the two of you chat about IKEA, thread count and Egyptian cotton. He makes you laugh twice, and you realize you are lying on your bed on your stomach dangling your feet in the air. You are enjoying his velvet voice in your mobile, when he suddenly stops himself and sighs. Your feet freeze in the air.

"I forgot why I was calling," his tone is suddenly apologetic, "I'm engaged today. For longer than I expected. So we would have to start dinner at ten as opposed to seven, and I know how it sounds… And Wren, if you are not comfortable with coming here so late, I'll understand." You are staring at the drawing and the camera on your table. "We can postpone..."

"No, it's fine. I'll be there at ten." Even to your ear your tone sounds light and natural. He seems to be listening to it very attentively. "We are not toddlers, we can stay up late."

"OK, so ten then?"

"Uh-huh, ten, I have your address." You exchange goodbyes, and he hangs up. You tell yourself it matters not. It just gives you additional three hours of agony, but in this situation it is hardly that much worse.

By nine you are dressed and are pointlessly clicking Pinterest. In front of you on the table lies his souvenir he gave you during the first dinner in the Thai restaurant. It's a silver bracelet, a simple delicate chain with six beads in the shape of scarabs. The blue one is probably lapis lazuli, there is a moonstone, a pink quartz, and you don't recognize other three. You were staring at it, and he laughed loudly and declared that it was as fake and as cheap as it got. It's nicely made though, not a typical trinket that they sell in tourists' shops. You suspect he was lying, and it's 1920s Art Deco Egyptian Revival. For once you didn't use this chance to appear a know-it-all and just thanked him. You were immediately in love with the bracelet, it's the most beautiful thing you own. When the cab comes to take you to his place, you put it on, exhale and close the door to your flat behind you.

By the time you are to buzz at his door, you realise you won't be able to. You paid for the cab and it's gone, so you are standing on the sidewalk, shaking from the cold and nerves, and you try to remember how to breathe. Some time between date one and date three you came up with a mental exercise that helps you to carry on. You know that as painful and confusing as your panic is at the moment, once you manage to reach him it'll be easier. Seeing him helps. You are reminded what you are fighting for. It's not about him though, it's about how you feel around him. With each time it is easier and easier to talk him, with each time you think you want to touch him more and more. Each time near him you hate yourself slightly less. You just need to press one little red button on the door, walk a few stairs, and you will see him. You close your eyes, clenching your camera in your hands. You just can't do it.

"Wren?" His voice is heard from above, he stuck his head out of his window, and your body jerks. The camera slips out of your hands. You squeal and press your mitten covered hands to your face. It fell in a snowdrift and was probably intact, but you can't make yourself look at it. Your heart is beating painfully in your chest, and you squeeze your eyes.

You hear the door click, and you know it's him before he speaks. "Wren, are you alright?" You shake your head keeping your mitts pressed to your face, and you feel him move. "Is that your camera? It fell in the soft snow, it's OK I'm sure..." Blindly you move towards his voice and bump into his chest. Without opening your eyes your wrap your arms around him. Your forehead presses into a cashmere sweater.

"Give a moment please..." He makes a funny snort like noise.

"Take a week if you need to," his voice is amused, and you feel the disgusting freezing tension you had in your nape all day finally uncoil. You take seven measured breaths in, inhaling the smell of his cologne and a hardly noticeable smell of something from Indonesian cuisine.

He is not wearing a jacket. You should let him go. "You must be cold..."

"I am in heaven." You bark a laugh, and to your own shock, you nuzzle him. It is about three billion times more pleasant than they describe it in books. His hand slowly lies on your shoulder, he is probably holding the camera in the second one. You hesitantly look up and meet his warm smiling eyes. This exact moment is the first time in your life that you think you might want to kiss someone.


	16. Chapter 16

He moves away and smiles to you. "Hi."

"Hi," you are smiling too, and your cheeks are burning. You drop your eyes and look at your camera in his hand. The case is covered in snow, and you think that his fingers are cold. "I had a panic moment."

"No wonder, you are entering the lion's den." He emits a rather convincing growl, and you giggle. His hand is still on your shoulder, and you are only mildly anxious about it.

"I'm hungry, am I smelling nasi goreng?"

"Your nose should be in Guinness Book," he guffaws, "Can I kiss it?" His tone is playful, but there is earnesty hiding in his irises, and you brace yourself. Your first reaction is predictable, you go into flight mode, you want to run, then you slowly bring your emotions down, and place your hands on his shoulders and stand up on your tiptoes, sticking your nose up.

"Help yourself," your voice is shaking. His eyebrows jump up, and you see he is fighting an urge to ask if you are sure. This is the most forward thing you've done so far. He doesn't know it, but that's the most forward thing you've done in your life.

He then smiles to you, his eyes tender, and places a small gentle kiss on the very tip of your nose. Even this tiny contact makes you tingle from head to toe, some strange buzzing at the base of your skull is growing louder. You suddenly want more. You shift your mitt covered hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck and pull down. At the last second you see his eyes widen, the pupils dilate, and you hold your breath. Were he not looking so stunned and helpless, you'd probably panic. But you quickly close your eyes and press your lips to his cheek. You might've wanted it since that night in the snow storm.

His skin is amazing. Your upper lip brushes on it, so warm and so different from yours, while you feel the whiskers of the beard under your bottom lip. The smell of his skin and cologne hit your nose. You are going into a sensory overload, your own body suddenly feeling unfamiliar, and you move away from him.

You exhale loudly and try to smile to him. He is standing, still slightly bending, and his eyes are studying you attentively. "Dinner?" You squeak, and he nods. He turns away from you, it feels like he is hiding his face from you. You feel anxiety rising, still mixed with the strange excitement from a moment ago, and then he turns back to you. His face is once again calm and friendly, and he stretches his free hand to you. You take it, and he leads you upstairs.

You enter his flat and freeze. He is standing with his hand stretched, expecting your jacket, but you can't tear your eyes off his living room. There is a wood burning stove. And it's working. Besides that there is an armchair in front of it, a vintage magazine table near it and a strange Mediterranean looking cast iron structure, three feet high, which you understand is an altered pendant light. There are candles inside. And that's it. Otherwise, the wooden boards of the floor of this rather large room are bare.

"Where is your furniture?" You sound so amazed that he chuckles.

"I like it like this."

"Where do your guests sit?" You are so shocked that you forget to be tongue-tied and just blabber what you think.

"I never bring anyone here. Jacket, please," there is hardly contained laughter in his voice. And then his words reach your understanding. Surely, there are women. Lots of them. You guess he is like Thea then, hotels and their places. You undress and awkwardly wait for him to put it in a closet. "Let's go to the kitchen, you might feel better there."

You do. It's amazing. It is so cozy and beautiful that you feel your spine lose its rigidness. The overall design is vintage, fifties, cottage style, lots of wood, the rounded fridge of fern green colour, with those funny handles, cute metal stools around the bar in the middle, with a sink in it, the old coffee machine, and lots of little pots with herbs. It is slightly messy, but doesn't feel unkempt, just lived in, and you see food arranged on the other end of the bar counter. You were right, it's nasi campur.

"I also have papeda and mubara fish, but I wasn't sure how adventurous you felt," he says softly, and you turn to him. You are sure your eyes are twice the normal size.

"Have you cooked all that?"

"Goodness no! It's from that place I told you about. Oh dear, should I have lied?" He is chuckling, "Would that impress you if I said I did?" He is laughing now, and you suddenly step to him and bump your forehead into his chest gently. He chokes on his frolics and stills. You are hiding your burning face.

"I am impressed," you are terrified of your own boldness but you needed to let him know you appreciate his effort.

"I'm glad." His voice is almost a whisper.

"May I use your lavatory?" You don't need to, but you require a moment of privacy. You are reaching your limits by now. You need to regroup. He directs you to it, and you quickly lock yourself in a tiny room. You sit on the lid and press your forehead to your knees. You are trying to be mindful of your swirling emotions.

In the bathroom while washing your hands you are staring at the owls on the wallpaper. The floor is wooden boards again, there are books on shelves and on a wooden stool, everything is warm dark colours, rough and natural, a stack of juniper soap bars, towels in a weaved basket, everything real, textual, so John. He is a very physical presence, and everything around him feels the same. There is a vintage Lone Wolf cigars advertisement poster in a brass frame on the wall, and you giggle. It might be hysterical, but there is something indubitably wolfish in the shape of his blue eyes and the long elegant nose.

You are almost ready to step out of the bathroom when you catch your reflection in the mirror. It's a big mistake. The mirror is rather small, probably used for shaving, and it's hanged rather high, for his needs obviously, but you still catch your pale face in it.

You suddenly remember the clammy cold hand at the back of your neck, and the rude shove that makes you hit the mirror with your forehead painfully. _Look at yourself, Wren. You are lucky you are so ugly, at least I don't touch you inappropriately. _His voice is mocking, and you whimper. The anticipation of an execution is worse than the execution._ Your sisters are much prettier than you. So what do you choose, me being strict but fair with you, or me being kind and... loving to your sisters?_

You sob and slide on the floor. You rock back and forth, your arms wrapped around you. You try talking yourself through it. It is just the adrenaline, you are wound up from the unusual situation, that's why the intrusive memories are stronger. There is nothing to remind you of him. It is a different flat, it is a different man, you are fine, you got out. You need to get up, but you can't make your muscles listen to you.


	17. Chapter 17

"Wren, are you alright?" Your whole body is shaking, your back covered in cold sweat, and you are biting your bottom lip.

"Sorry, I need another minute..." As soon as you speak you realise it was a mistake. Your voice sounds so horrible, that you immediately hear him shift behind the door.

"Wren, can I come in? Wren, I'm worried about you." You remember his phrase from before. _I'm responsible for you. _You wonder if that's what makes him call you again and again. He has a nephew with the similar disorder, he understands that you are developing dependency on him, he can't leave you now. He is being responsible. It's more painful than pity.

Your emotions overflow. You can't stop yourself. You are frantically trying to remember how good you felt at the porch, pressed into him, you try to focus on how grounded you felt in the kitchen. You even made a first step yourself, you hugged him. His body wasn't scaring you. You wanted to touch him. Nothing helps.

You are a stray cat he fed once by accident and now doesn't know what to do with. And then you get angry. Even though you know it's a normal reaction, you can't stop yourself. No one asked him to interfere. No one asked him. You need to leave. You'll say you are not feeling OK. You'll go home, and you will think about it. You'll see your therapist tomorrow. You clench your fists and open the door.

He is standing leaning on the opposite wall. He is keeping a non threatening distance. He knows you're having an episode, and he is giving you room. You feel worse.

"I am not feeling that well, I… Need to go home… I'm sorry for the dinner..." He is studying you. You remember than less is better and shut up. The pause stretches, your hands are shaking. Then he nods.

"Sure. Let's get dressed and catch a cab outside. It'll be faster than calling them." You lower your head, follow him and hurriedly pull on your coat. You don't lift your eyes at him once.

It is snowing again outside. He stops a cab and opens the door for you. You climb in, and then he slides on the seat near you.

"What are you doing?!" His face is stern. You have never seen him like that. There are knots of muscles on his jaw.

"I'm taking you home. You are not going alone if you are sick."

"Where to?" The cabbie asks, but you are staring at John. You can't stay in a tiny cab with him for half an hour. Tears are coming, he can't see them.

"I'll be fine, I am sorry for the dinner, you should go eat, you had a long day..." There are no pauses in your mumbling. His eyes seem cold, he turns away, it feels like he slapped you, and gives a cabbie your address. You hear the familiar buzzing, your mind tries to cloud reality from you, you haven't had it for a while. You feel disoriented and can't breathe. You know what's coming next. You do the only thing available, you jerk the door open and tumble out of the cab. Your bare hands and knees sink in the slush near the kerb, and then his door bangs, and you feel his arms around you. You panic and thrash. It's the cold, something wet on your hands and jeans, like the blood or the water from broken tea pot, there are male hands on you, and you scream. He pulls you from the road on the pavement and immediately lets you go. By then you can't see anything, all you feel you are in that bathroom again, and pain is coming.

"Wren, listen to me," his voice is very soft and gentle, and it's so John that it gets through to you. "Wren, common, listen to my voice… Carefully concentrate on your breathing… Common, love… Listen to my voice..." You are heaving, you can't see anything, just feel the cold under your palms. But you can hear him. "Listen to the noises around you. You are outside, Wren, in front of my building, what can you hear?" You take a breath in. He is being smart. You needed reminding to be careful. The next thing you'd do if not reminded would be castigate yourself for not minding your breathing although you know you should. And you are outside, he is right. You are not in the bathroom. "What do you hear, Wren?"

"Cars. I hear cars..." It doesn't even sound like your voice.

"Good. What else?"

"There is music..."

"Yeah, it's annoying. It's from that car." Your mind starts grasping at the image of a car with its windows lowered. There are no daft pimped cars in bathrooms. "And smells? Can you smell anything? What does your magical noise smell?" You tell yourself it's John, it's him, only John would joke about your nose.

"Exhaust… And the bread..."

"It's the bakery across the street. They make great Chorley cakes, the owner is a Yonner. What else do you smell?" It is easier to breathe.

"You, I can smell your cologne..." He is sitting near, on the snow, without touching you. You can smell his skin.

"Good. You are doing great, Wren." You open your eyes and see dirty snow in front of you. Your hands give in, and you fall down. He shifts but stops himself. "Wren, can I touch you? Can I hug you?" You sob and move towards him. His arms go around you, and you start crying loudly. You ruined your date. You are worthless. He presses you into him, still very gently, and starts rocking you slightly.

"It's alright, Wren. You did great." You don't think so. "Do you want to get up now?" You are so exhausted that you hardly understand anything anymore. All you want is to stay in his arms. You are too tired. You jerked of course when he hugged you, but it passed so fast that it's almost like it didn't even happen. And he is so warm. You nod. You don't remember what you are agreeing on.

"Wren, is my flat alright? You are crashing..." You imagine a blanket and a pillow and whine in anticipation. He supports you, and then suddenly lets go off you with one arm. You look and through haze you see him picking up your camera from the snow. He gently leads you upstairs, somehow he helps you out of your jacket and boots, but it still seems you are doing it yourself, he takes the stuff out of your hands, and then you are in his bedroom.


	18. Chapter 18

Unlike his living room the bedroom is full of stuff. There is a large vintage oak bed, shelves with books, chest of drawers, large trunk and three weaved baskets, and seemingly a million of trinkets on every surface and wall. Masks, dream catchers, figurines, a skull on the wall, you'd say it's an African kudu, seemingly simple rocks, lanterns and candles, photographs on the walls in assorted frames, a cacophony of materials and colours that somehow work together. You sway, and he walks to his bed. He jerks of the covers, it is a Hmong quilt, and pushes his hands down his pockets.

"I'll leave you to it," his voice is warm and friendly, as if nothing just happened, as if it is natural that you are standing in his bedroom your denim soaked with dirty wet snow from the street, shaking and pathetic. He points at the door in the other wall, "You can get to the bathroom through here. You know, to wash your hands. And I suggest you take off your jeans." You have a choice between destroying his sheets or touching them with a fair amount of your naked skin. You are not certain which is more intimidating. "I'll be in the kitchen, call me if anything." He steps to a shelf, picks up his laptop and glasses, and giving you an encouraging smile he leaves the room.

You are standing above his bed, taking measured breaths. You are cold, and his duvet looks divine. After holding your hands under running warm water for a while, you feel better. You return to the bedroom, you want to look at the photos on the wall, but your knees are shaking, and you jerk off your denim and the sweater and slide in his bed.

It is a bliss. It is like sleeping with him but without suffocating anxiety. His smell, the smoothness of the sheets, dark blue with white pattern, numerous pillows and the soft weightless duvet make you suddenly sleepy, and then it's dark.

You wake up with a jerk. You are breathing heavily, after your usual nightmare. It's a frequent one, each time you see that one boy from school, he is being violent, threatening you, pushing you into a wall, while in reality he had been bullied at school himself. It is a normal projection of violence, a shift common for your mind. You are still very wound up after the episode outside. There is a nightlight in the room, you don't remember lighting it up, you assume he came to check on you. You are warm and surprisingly comfortable, as if you are not sleeping for the first time in your life in a bloke's bed. You follow the pattern on the bedding with your finger. It's Yggdrasil. It's gorgeous, it would make a very good tattoo.

In the feet of the bed you see a robe, terry velour, navy blue, you assume he left it from you. It's clean and smells like it was dried outside. You pull it on and trod to the kitchen. He is sitting on one of the stools, the familiar glasses on the tip of his nose, denim and tee, barefoot, one earphone on. He lifts his eyes at you and smiles.

"Hey," there is a cup of steaming tea in front of him.

"Hey," you feel like you just swallowed a spoonful of sand. You sound equally horrible. "What time is it?"

"Quarter to midnight. Want something? You didn't have dinner." You tense. You don't want to think about the dinner you ruined.

You two speak at the same time. You croak awkwardly shifting between your feet, "I need my mobile to call the cab."

While he offers cheerfully, "Do you want to watch _Let's Kill Hitler_?" You stare at him. "It's my favourite episode. And you do need to eat. You look hungry."

"It's almost midnight..." You don't sound convincing.

"And it's Friday. Nowhere to rush," he smiles. "I'll give you the laptop, you go back to bed, and I'll bring you a tray." You open and close your mouth. He is right though. You need to distract yourself, your mind is still whirling. He can't know it, but you do rewatch _Doctor Who_ after panic attacks, it calms you down. You like that at least something in this world makes less sense than your life. But you are not going to occupy his bed, in the middle of the night, he doesn't even have a li-lo. You also won't be able to relax knowing he is in the kitchen. You should go home. You are supposed to want to run. You want to stay.

"Have you eaten?" You want to stay here with him, but don't know how to ask. He nods.

"But I'm only on my third cuppa." He grins and jumps off the stool and pats on it. "Sit down. I'll get your dinner, and you turn on Netflix."

You are chewing a kerupuk, and by the time River Song first appears on the screen, you are already chuckling.

"God, she is so gorgeous!" You can't help it, you just love her. He makes some indistinct noise to your left, and you turn your head. He is not looking at the screen. His eyes are warm and emotional, and you feel strange fluttering inside. You understand his facial expression, you are not a child. He is attracted to you. But the response inside you is new. You still panic, half of your mind screams at you to jump off the stool and run, but you ground yourself. And there is a tiny flicker of warmth in your chest. You wish you could answer to this strange pull in his eyes.

He shifts, and the link is broken. He starts a kettle, and you blurt out, "I decided to go through exposure and response prevention treatment." He turns to face you and leans on the counter. You shrink and wrap your arms around you. You stare at the wall and ask yourself why you thought he'd care.

"Is it the one where you make yourself trigger the panic attacks?"

"In simplified terms, yes. You expose yourself to triggers and address your irrational fears. Has your nephew gone through it?" He shakes his head.

"He is considering it. It's a tough task to take upon you if you want to succeed." You nod.

He sits back on the stool near you and pauses the film. "Wren, I'll be honest with you..."


	19. Chapter 19

"Wren, I'll be honest with you," He steeples his fingers on the table, "I know if I start professing my feelings for you this very moment, you will probably get scared and run away. And I also know there is no point in asking you what you feel, since you clearly don't know yourself." You tense and squeeze your knees together. He is right, you feel scared right away. "But I'm honestly not made of stone here..." There is frustration in his voice that makes you shake. He is displeased with you. Your first reaction is to rush and give him what he needs. You open your mouth but no words come out. He is staring at his fingers, as if he doesn't remember you are there.

He lifts his eyes at you then, they are brilliant, and he is frowning. You are very frightened at the moment. You are suddenly reminded that he is male, physically strong, that he has desires, that he somehow decided involve you. Your mind frantically tries to recollect how to unlock his front door. He sees your face and exhale sharply.

"Wren, goodness… Forgive me. And I am very, very sorry..." His voice is raspy, and the new wave of fear floods you. He is done with you. He's reached his limit. He's finally realized how useless you are. "I don't want to frighten you, but I just sometimes forget… Bollocks..." He suddenly shifts, and there is a tiny squeak inside you. He looks at you with pained eyes. "Wren, I like you. I want to touch you, and I know that then that's it, you'll run… But then I think you'll go into this therapy, and you will feel better, and you will..." He rubs his face with his hands, "I'm sorry, it's late, and I'm not making any sense."

There is buzzing in your ears, there is pain in all your muscles, all the usual symptoms but through all of them you feel a strange thread connecting you to reality. He is real. His warmth, his care, his laughter, his smile, the tea he makes you, the fact that he remembers that you take it with milk and honey, all of it so painfully real, and you rasp out, "What are you trying to say?"

"Wren..." He frowns, collecting his thoughts. "I am asking you to be kind to me." It's a very strange thing to say, and your brows jump up. You momentarily forget the disgusting sticky terror you are feeling. He looks directly into your eyes and nods to his own thoughts. "Yes, that's what I'm asking. When you are better and when you are deciding whether to call me or move on with your life, please be fair. Don't run just because it's hard. And… Let me help. I want to help. I want to stay, and I want you to trust me. I'm not going anywhere if you want me close." His eyes are earnest. "But don't string me along and don't stay with me just because you can't say no. Because that would be cruel." You blink and stare at him. That's too much and too soon, and it's late, and nights are always harder. All sorts of thoughts are swirling in your head.

"I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow, and I'll go into treatment, and maybe it's OK if for two weeks or so we don't see each other, and I have time to think..." You mumble, and he is studying you and then nods. His face is suddenly tired, and you breathe easier. You'll have two weeks to process it. And you need to understand what he has just said. It's probably something men say, and since you have never dealt with any, you are not at all sure what to make of it.

He calls you a cab and offers you a pair of his denim. You have to roll them up so many times that you feel like you are wearing Skip-It toys on your ankles. He walks you downstairs, and you are standing on his pavement expecting the usual kiss. He doesn't lean in, the line of his lips is tense, and you wonder if he is testing you. You clench your fists, and you are almost ready to leave, when he suddenly shakes off his dark mood and his remarkable eyes focus on you.

"I'm sorry, I'm being a wanker here," his eyes are once again tender, and your throat constricts. You feel tears rising, it feels like a farewell suddenly. You remind yourself you are not leaving anywhere, you are just going home, you'll see him soon. You are not even going to rehab, you are just starting a new treatment, but nothing helps. You also suddenly remember how you cried in his hands on the dirty snow on the pavement, and how much easier it is when there are warm arms to hold on to. He wasn't restricting you in any way, you can't say they were wrapped around you, but they were there when you were grasping for something to touch, to connect to reality, to remind you where you are. You want it again.

You lift your eyes at him, and he smiles gently, "Wren, can I kiss you goodnight?" Everything is shaking inside, there is a moment of silence, and you close your eyes. You can't let anything influence your decision. If you see hunger in his eyes, you might freak out. Or on the opposite, you might let him just because he obviously wants it. You all of a sudden clearly understand that you have a choice. If you say no, he'll nod and make a step back. You will get in the cab, but everything will be the same, you'll still have your choice. You will call him, or not. It is a strange feeling, to have control over your life. And you also understand another thing. And you need to give him the benefit of the doubt. He promised to stay and maybe, just maybe he will. He asked you to trust him, to be kind to him. You asked him to wait two weeks, and he will. You open your eyes and give him a shaky smile.

"Yes." He returns the smile and steps closer.

He leans in, it's a familiar gesture, your heart quickens, but you have already learnt to manage your reaction to this situation. His lashes go down, you catch the smell of his skin, but you understand his lips will touch your mouth this time. You clench your jaw, close your eyes, but you do not move away.

His lips are warm as usual. He presses them lightly, the feathery touch, yours tingle, and you gasp. He immediately moves away, and you are standing with your eyes closed. It didn't feel any different from previous kisses to the cheek. There wasn't more sexual in it, and you exhale. You are not five, you know that's not how people kiss. What's shocking is that you are disappointed. You open your eyes at look at him. There are red spots burning on his cheekbones. Surely, there was nothing in this to affect him thusly.

The cabbie honks, and you jerk. "So, I will call you," it's a nice thing to say. You feel empowered. Before it was always him. "In two weeks. Once the treatment starts." He nods, and you climb in. The cab starts moving, and you look back through the window at him. His hands are pressed down his pockets, and his face is dark. You clearly understand that he thinks it's the end. You on the other hand do not know.


	20. Chapter 20

It's been eight days. You are lying on your back, on your bed, OST of _Nightmare Before Christmas _playing at the background. _"__And will we ever end up together?/ No, I think not, it's never to become/ For I am not the one...__" _Your therapist told you that asking John for two weeks away from him was "existential avoidance," and it is exactly the opposite from what you should be doing. Since your isolating yourself from the world is exactly where your problem lies. You wouldn't have listened to her before, you were completely content with your life. You want to change it now. She asked you if you valued relationships, and you asked with whom. With anybody, she answered. You are staring at your ceiling, and you know she is right. The therapy you have started, as excruciating as it is, is your way to start living. You are not doing it for John, you just want to live. Yesterday morning during your session with her you two had a lovely laughing moment, when you described your sensations as "defrosting." That's exactly what it feels like, as if you came from freezing outside, and you shoved your hands under warm running water. It hurts like hell, but there is a minuscule bit of certainty in you that it's worth it.

It's time for your exposure session. Besides seeing your therapist once a week and spending three hours in her office in a state of agonizing anxiety, you spend three hours a day in your bathroom, triggering the memories of your trauma. You were given a choice between doing it on your own or writing it down and having someone read it to you. You were also supposed to evaluate it by an amount of points out of a 100, where 100 were the maximum level of anxiety. Remembering your foster father's fist hitting your ribs while sitting on a cold tile floor in your bathroom hit 70 out of 100. Thea accidentally hearing you screaming when in a panic attack is 80.

You haven't realised it, but apparently someone else finding out the proportions of your disorder triggers higher anxiety in you than the intrusive memories themselves. _Have you considered that that's why you don't want to let John into your life? _She asked, and you shrank in the chair. You have, and you know she is right. _Have you considered that a victim of childhood abuse is not what he sees in you? _You have, and you stopped yourself. Hoping is just causing more pain for yourself. Hoping is also human and natural.

_Have you considered giving him __benefit of the doubt?_ Your first reaction is to suspect everyone, your first reaction is to panic, everything makes you startle. But she offered you to give people benefit of the doubt, to ask yourself whether you have any evidence for your mistrust towards a particular person. And with John you have none. In all this time there wasn't an instance when he wasn't kind, considerate and… wonderful. You absent-mindedly play with his bracelet you have around your left wrist. Somehow in your mind "giving him benefit of the doubt" and "being kind to him" are the same thing.

You get up from the bed and sit down at your computer. It is time to up the stakes. You spend the next three hours typing and crying. You write your story down, you make yourself purposefully put down the details that trigger most anxiety, like how he used to pull your hair, how he beat you harder if your grades were higher, how he would beat your sisters if you were too battered for new bruises to stay unnoticed. You have to stop twice during the session, you climb under your desk, you are shaking there, you bite your fingers, there is blood.

You save the document, print it, and crawl under your blanket. You cry yourself to sleep and wake up when it's already dark outside. You did your work for the day, but something is nagging at your mind. You had a nightmares, as always, some dark and stuffy place, slime on the cold walls under your fingers, stale damp air, and you rush to the bathroom. You wash your hands and face, and stand for a long time watching water run down into the sink. You miss John.

You drag yourself to the bedroom, and turning on all possible lights in the room you sit on your bed and place your mobile in front of yourself. Dr. Coutts suggested you did an exposure session if you decided to call him. _Imagine calling him, taking the initiative, it's under your control, you are the one making the decision. Plan your time, be firm. _You feel sharp painful nausea rising. You haven't eaten anything today again, even with the reminders in your phone you forget. You are so tired at the end of the day now, that sometimes you think you still wouldn't be able to have dinner without falling asleep your face down into the plate. You bring a glass of water from the kitchen and drink it slowly, reigning the sick feeling in your stomach, your eyes glued to the black screen of the phone.

You will call him, he will pick up, he will say his usual _Oh hi, Wren_. He will sound surprised. Your mind swirls. You will bother him, you will interrupt something important, he will be irritated. He will not be able to hang up on you because you are a broken useless traumatised chick he picked up without meaning to. He is relieved you are gone. Your heart quickens, the glass drops out of your hand, spilling the rest of the water on your bed. Your hands are shaking. It is at least 60 out of 100, and you painfully bite into your bottom lip.

You gently concentrate on your breathing. He asked you to be kind to him. You should give him benefit of the doubt. You should be kind… You take a shuddered breath in, then another, the buzzing in your ears subsides, and your vision clears a bit. You are looking at your phone again. You are in control here. You are the one with power. You are calling him, because as scared as you are you want to see him.

The thought is like a flash of light in your brain. You want to see him. You want to talk to him, to hear his voice. You want the kiss goodbye, you want to occasionally touch his hand, when he helps you out of a cab. You want his warmth, his smiles, the soft look of his blue eyes.

You will call him, and he will pick up. He will be surprised, and maybe, only maybe a bit glad, because he thought he'd never see you again. You will give him the benefit of the doubt and allow yourself think that perhaps he misses you too, just a little bit. He did call you again and again before, he took you out for dinners, he said you could hug him for a week if you wanted to. He stood outside in one sweater so you could stay pressed into him. He will pick up, and you will tell him you would like to see him. You will tell him that there is a photo exhibition in that small gallery your colleague told you about, and maybe he wants to see it. If he says he is busy, you will breathe out and say that you understand. You will say goodbye, and you two will know he can call you some time later. And if he does, you will have a choice whether to pick up. You still will be in control.

You spend another half an hour going through triggering and halting your irrational fears from kicking in, and then you pick up your phone and scroll down through your calls. You press your finger into his number and close your eyes. He picks up right away.

"Thank goodness! God, Wren, you are calling me!" His voice is elated, warm and smoky, just like you remembered it, and you smile.


	21. Chapter 21

It's late, and John is walking you home. You pass your building for the fourth time. You walk by it, both pretending it's not happening and continue talking and make another circle around the block, and here is your door again. It's your third date you asked him out to after you started your treatment. You stop, and he smiles softly. You have practised the next step in your head the evening before, but you are still shaking.

"Would you like to go up?" Your voice is small, but he smiles wider.

"I'd love to," he is very eager, but then he bites his tongue. You have to give him points for trying. He really keeps his actions and words under control. You are not a child, on the other hand. You wonder at what point his remarkable self-control will slip. He is a man after all, a creature of flesh and blood. He behaves at the dates with you as if you both are eleven. He does a grown-up equivalent of carrying your school bag. Surely, he has to feel very frustrated. He did say the words "sexual frustration" before. It's terrifying. And perhaps just a little bit exciting. He is after all astonishingly attractive. You try not to think about it. You will immediately start questioning why he is even here.

You are going up the stairs. You wonder if it's his stare you feel between your shoulder blades. "Thea is at Jimmy's today," you try feigning nonchalance. You fail. He hums noncommittally, and you look over your shoulder. There is snow on the fur of his collar and on his dark waves. His blue eyes are shining, and suddenly you turn around and place your palm on his chest under his clavicle. He stops at the previous step, and suddenly his face is almost at the same level with yours.

"Can I try something, please?" His pupils dilate, you can see them flood his irises, and you immediately panic. But you have worked hard on your triggers. You did the exposure activity yesterday. According to Dr. Coutts, you are doing great. You seem to feel it too. Each day it is easier to control your reactions. Once you got that first kick out of calling him, and then actually choosing a place to go to, it became almost addictive. All this is exhilarating. More so, you decided to move to those things that cause more anxiety. You just did exposure session on physical contact yesterday. You are still riding a wave from it.

You quickly close your eyes and press your lips to his. You repeat your mantra inside. _It is not about the skill, it is not about the fact that you've literally never done it before, it's about showing him you want it._ And it is a god honest fact that you want it. You want to know what it feels like.

It feels divine. His lips are soft and warm, and he tastes amazing. You sense the coffee he was drinking after dinner, you can smell his fresh cologne, his skin, your head starts spinning, but it's a good spinning. Your hand is still on his chest, and you want more. You put the second one on the other shoulder, and he gently moves away from you. The panic kicks in, but you clench your teeth and repeat in your head, _Be kind to him. Give him benefit of the doubt_. Be kind.

"Can I kiss you too?" His voice is raspy, and his eyes are sincere, and you nod. He leans in, his arms still passively hanging along his body, and he returns the kiss. His is equally chaste, lips closed, his lashes flutter, and he closes his eyes. You can't seem to stop staring at him through the kiss. He is so beautiful. He tilts his head a bit, and his mouth opens slightly. You feel his breath brush your mouth. You shrink back, your cheeks are burning.

You promised yourself you wouldn't say it, but of course it slips out, "I am not good at it..." He opens his eyes, they are dark. You go through the familiar startle running through your body, and then he smiles warmly.

"You are amazing. Do you want to stop?" You shake your head. "Can I touch you too then?" The two of you are standing in the middle of your staircase, but you surprisingly don't care.

"Yes," you breathe out. You have mittens on, and you jerk them off. You stuff them in your pockets, and he chuckles. He slowly puts one hand on your waist and pulls you a bit closer to him. Your back arches slightly, and you hesitantly put one hand on the collar of his winter jacket. The tips of your fingers brush his hot skin, you gasp, and he covers your mouth with his. He is doing a much better job than you, while still being very considerate and almost virtuous. You sigh into his mouth, and your hand slips at the back of his neck. His whole body jolts under your hands, and you jerk away from him.

His eyes are dark, tense, and instead of asking you how you are and smiling to you as he always does, he is studying you with some intense, hungry expression. Your heart is drumming in your ears.

"I don't what I'm doing..." His voice is hoarse, and for some inconceivable reason you find it very funny. You bite your lip, but the ridiculous chuckling bursts out of you. He jerks his eyebrows up.

"Surely, you are not asking _me_ how to kiss," your voice is choked from hardly contained laughter.

"I know how people kiss," he sounds grumpy, and that's your undoing. You start sniggering, and in a strangely natural action you move into him and place your forehead on his shoulder. He is still standing still, you feel his fingers twitch on your side. "I am worried to scare you off. I'm worried to lose control..." His voice is sincerely upset, and his words unpleasantly scrape at your mind. He wouldn't be worried if you were normal. The moment is ruined, and you move away from him. He doesn't try to stop you, and that irritates you even more. You open your mouth for a snarky remark, but then you see his face. His eyes are feverish, and the lips that you now know are so soft are set in a distressed line. You remind yourself to give him the bloody benefit of the doubt.

"It's not your responsibility, John," suddenly you realise how shockingly pleasant it is to be the one doing the reassuring. "You always ask before the next step, and that's enough. I'll tell you if something is wrong." You are internally praying that you understand him right. And that he understands your answer. You are praying that the two of you are actually talking about physical intimacy.

"You jump up when I touch you..." His tone is helpless, insecure, and you return your hands on his shoulders.

"And I will for the longest time. It's called a fear-potentiated startle, it's when I get scared by neutral stimuli. Heart rate goes up, and the fight-or-flight response is activated." He is listening attentively. "It will continue for a long time, even if a stimulus is… pleasant."

And then he cocks one eyebrow, and for the first in your life you understand what they mean by a hackneyed phrase "her inner muscles clenched." It is so sexy and flirty that you gasp loudly.

"Am I a pleasant stimulus?" You wouldn't call his voice at this moment anything but a purr. You rush through the usual reactions with twice the speed you do in the normal circumstances. Startle, terror, feeling of inadequacy, fear of failure, doubt in self-worth, regulation of emotions, reminding of the fact that he is here and he is coming back for you, and you breathe out. It's amazing how much faster you manage to calm down these days.

"You are a very, very pleasant stimulus," you hope you don't sound corny. Apparently not, since he smiles widely. You are feeling very daring all of a sudden. "And stop looking so smug." He guffaws. There are little crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and you press your lips to his cheek. You have already established for yourself you really like the beard.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: I have a small immature confession to make. I produce about 5000 words a day, usually about 2.5 chapters for a couple of my fics. But then I don't post them because I feel like people review only the latest updates ;) So I squirrel them down and feed them to you slowly. And since I have a few stories running, I update at least one of them daily so I have a feeling like I'm losing half of possible reviews I could have "milked" out of my audience and new followers. So, wink wink nudge nudge :) No pressure obviously, but as I saw written on someone's FF page "Please, feed the plot bunnies!" :D **

**And seriously, besides petty vanity of an FF writer, it DOES help to write. So many things are shown to me in a different light through your eyes, and reviews allow me a fresh perspective when I get too tangled in a story, especially the one like this, where I bawl over writing each chapter. With all honesty, I bought a family format box of tissues especially for this one. Insert the Munch painting impersonation.**

**Love you all, ****my darlings**** *hides behind an armchair*****  
><strong>

You invite him into the flat, take his jacket, and he tucks his massive body onto the li-lo where he spent that very night. He is wearing a knitted toggle cardigan over a micro check shirt and manages to look dashing in the most comfortable clothes. You rush to the kitchen to start tea. Following Dr. Coutts' advice, you have a sheet of paper hidden in a cupboard, it has helpful notes on how to proceed this evening. Kissing him isn't on the list, and you feel almost smug. You did better than you planned. But then you scold yourself, the evening has just started.

You go through the important points in your head. He has been here before, so there is no need to worry about impressing him with the flat. He probably feels rather comfortable here, so you can relax a bit too. He won't be bored while waiting for tea, he can take a book from a shelf, he knows where everything is. And let's face it he makes himself comfortable anywhere very fast. You know how he takes his tea, and you have prepared. You bring the tray into the living room and carefully place it on the coffee table. He is sitting on the li-lo in exactly the same pose you left him there, and he starts laughing when he sees the tray. You smile hesitantly, if you have consumed even a third of what is on it you'd go into sugar coma. You have also bought cheese scones, and he immediately picks up one and bites a generous piece. You realise you are staring at him eating again, and you squeeze yourself into the opposite corner of the li-lo, pulling your legs up and tucking them under yourself. You wrap your arms around your middle without thinking, and then remember the conversation with Dr. Coutts about defensive body language. You hurriedly pick up a mug and take a sip. He is chewing with a blissful expression on his face.

"If they made cheese flavoured tea, would you drink it?" For the life of you, you have no bloody idea where this came from. He stops chewing, lifts his eyes to the ceiling in an exaggerated thoughtful gesture and then nods. You snort into your mug. He is smiling to you, his cheek protruding with the half of the scone he stuffed in his mouth. You want to kiss him again. To distract yourself you pick up a custard cream and bite into it. It is so disgustingly sweet that you wince. He is done with his scone and is stirring his tea with six spoons of sugar in it. You didn't count on purpose, you can't help it.

"Is there any food _you_ can eat and eat and feel like you can't have enough?" He asks lightly and takes a large sip of his tea, his eyes on you over the rim of the mug. You shortly wonder if this conversation can get any more childish. On your way here you two were discussing the death of Patti Page and how much Mitch Miller's approach of converting country style music into pop singles revolutionized record industry in the States. And now you are discussing your favourite scoff.

"Not really," you are definitely thinking too hard on the answer to this question, "But I once tried a persimmon, and I think if given a chance I could eat a lot of it. It was amazing." You wonder if that was a satisfying answer. And then you remember one of the notes on the paper in your cupboard. _A conversation isn't a test. _He is pondering your answer chewing the second scone.

"Is it that bright orange fruit? With beautiful pits?" You are staring at him. The pits were the main attraction for you, they were just perfect. You saved them and used their shape for several logos you designed. There is some sort of indescribable grace in them. In combination with bright orange flesh and the pattern the pit spots form when the fruit is cut across, persimmon became a little obsession of yours.

You realise you've been quiet for a while, your eyes probably glassy and distant, and you jerk and look at him. You expect irritation or discomfort on his face. Your social skills are horrendous.

"Wren, can I please kiss you?" His eyes are roaming your face, red spots on his cheekbones, and you gulp. You push the mug you weren't aware you were holding onto the table and move slightly closer to him. Your throat is constricted but you are in a hurry to agree, so you nod. He moves with astonishing speed towards you, and his hands fly up and cup your face. You suppress a squeak inside you, your hands immediately starting to shake. He slows down and exhales visibly.

He leans in slowly, the kiss is tender and light, but you feel the difference in him. He feels hungrier, hardly controlling himself. You press your palms into his shoulders and gently push him away. That doesn't stop him, his lips are much more demanding this time, he doesn't seem to notice your gesture, and you immediately go into panic mode. You moan into his mouth, trying to tell him to stop, but he misinterprets the sound. His hand slides at the back of your head, and it's one of the things you planned to tell him to avoid. Your foster father used to grab the hair at the back of your head or shove you into a sink of cold water this way.

You thrash in his arms and emit a choked scream. He immediately lets you go and jumps away from you on the li-lo. You feel mortified. You ruined everything, he'll leave now. Your first impulse is to run into your bedroom and hide.

"Wren, I..." He is staring at you, his pupils dilated, and you start crying loudly. A tiny part of your mind that is not flooded with terror, guilt, shame and left-over excitement you felt before, tells you that it's a good thing you're crying. You didn't go numb, didn't turn off your brain, didn't dissociate, you stayed in the reality. But it hurts. You don't like the reality at the moment. You don't like his pained expression, frowned brows, clenched fists.

He is going to leave and find himself a chick who will tumble with him on a li-lo and let him touch more than just the back of her head. You are an idiot to even consider that the pathetic bits of intimacy you can give him could be enough for a sane, healthy, sexy man. You are shaking and crying louder. He will apologise, wrap up this evening and will never call you again. And he will have every right to. You were naive to think that you were getting better. And even if you were, what man in their sane mind would wait for you? Slow doesn't cover it when it comes to building something with you. And what is there to wait for in your case anyway?


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: My darling, HisLordFluffiness, thank you for your gorgeous reviews! And yes, I do indeed seem to write a lot of cliffhangers. That's not necessarily intentional, that's how my brain works. When it gets too intense, it conks out and demands a break :) **

**As for the length of chapters, that's just how this story feels in my mind, fast wound up rhythm. My action/adventure/AU stories are usually 1500 words per chapter or so, original universe 2500, this one just feels like a machine gun. When I collaborate with RagdollPrincess, it often borders to 5000. It all depends on the flow of words, to be honest.**

**How about two chapters at once this time? :) I do want to make my beloved readers happy :)**

**A/N#2: My darling, magnificent, glorious readers, I LOVE YOU ALL! (Some of you might be familiar with explosions of my affection, it's one of them :D) Thank you so much for your support and feedback! Oh, I am sniffing! Good thing I have my giant box of tissues :)**

You have this habit of not wiping your eyes when you cry. You have disgustingly pale, sensitive skin, it bruises easily, and you have learnt that if you don't rub, your eyes are less red after you are done crying. The last thing you could afford in your childhood was someone noticing your red eyes. So you are sitting on the li-lo in front of him, tears running down your face, your body quaking, your hands are fisted, clenching the bottoms of your sweater's sleeves.

He still hasn't said anything, but you know what's coming. He is going to profoundly apologise for his behaviour, gracious and a true gentleman that he always is, and then he'll leave. You are certain that's his limit. He is still silent, his eyes roaming your face, and then you see that his shoulders are shaking too. His hands are clenched just like yours.

"I couldn't help it… I forgot..." His voice is hollow, and you realise he feels guilty. You cry harder. Misery floods you, and you almost want him to leave quicker. There is a small part of you that doesn't want to completely fall apart in front of him.

"Wren, you looked so beautiful, and I forgot… But I can't… I'm sorry, I can't..." He rubs his face with open palms. Here it goes, an apology and the ending. He can't do this anymore.

"I can't help it, you are just so..." Ugly? Broken? Useless? Vexatious? Querulous? You have a large vocabulary. "You smile, or talk about something you like, and you forget to be scared… And then you are so hot..." He fists his right hand and thumps it to his forehead. You choke on your sobs and make a strange sound that most of all reminds you of a squack of a Culver duck. He looks devastated, clenching and unclenching both his fists now, and you are not sure what shocked you more. His words, him hitting himself to the head or you not freaking out at the view of physical violence of sorts. You can't even watch_ Tom and Jerry. _A massive bloke just swung his fist in the air, and you've been thinking about the fact that he called you 'hot'. You jump up on your feet and rush to the bathroom. You splash cold water on your face and pat it with a towel. Your eyes will still be red, but you got the pause you needed to process what has just happened. He won't leave, he is too mannered for it. You shift between your feet in the bathroom, as much as you hate the place, right now you want to stay here, but then you push yourself to go back.

He is sitting on the li-lo, his elbows on his knees, hands hanging between his legs passively. His head is dropped, and altogether he looks… broken. You half-sit on the armrest of the li-lo. He lifts his face, his eyes are pained and shiny.

"I just can't hide it anymore. It comes out, and I scare you. I feel horrible… Wren, I do. Do you believe me?" You are calming down after the outburst, you are cold and drowsy, something clenched in your chest, like a piece of ice, nasty shivers running through your body. You are trying to concentrate on what he is saying, you need to understand, but all you can think of is sitting closer to him and his warmth. That's an interesting thought. He has just frightened you, you felt physically threatened, but you are back to normal astonishingly fast. He said you were 'hot'. You gulp and get up.

"Wren, please give me a mo! You have every right to throw me out right now, but can you listen to me please?" He sounds panicked and pleading. "Blimey, I mean, if talking about it doesn't trigger you..." He is frowning now, and you sit back.

"Sure, we can talk..." He nods gravely and presses his palm over his mouth. He is gathering his thoughts for a bit, you are regulating your breathing.

"Wren, I haven't had serious relationships for a while… It just wasn't my thing, OK? I just didn't feel the need. And I was fine with it. That first night, you just… Blew my mind," he smiles hesitantly, studying your reaction. You are listening attentively. You promised him to be kind. Your first reaction is mistrust, but you promised to be kind. "I understood you were traumatised, but there were moments when you forgot about it, or even joked about it, like when I made that daft joke about kissing, and I thought..." He frowns more, seemingly dissatisfied with his words. "Wren, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I read up on C-PTSD while I was away, I told myself I could do it, keep it in check. But I have very little self-control, and I have temper, Wren, I always have." He looks at you, his eyes distressed, and you carefully exhale. "And… God, I really shouldn't say that, I have heightened libido. I have trouble keeping myself in check. It's a hormone thing or something. You have no idea how hard I'm trying in here!" He emits a strange strangled chuckle and rubs his face again. "Wren, being with you is a bloody torture."

You knew of course, how else would it feel? But when said straight into your face, it hurts so much that you feel you are going to vomit right now. You feel blood rushing away from your face. You can't breathe in, buzzing in your ears starts again. You haven't had it so bad for a few weeks by now. His words are like a punch into your stomach. He suddenly sees your face and swears. You didn't know he could swear.

"God, Wren, I made it worse. I don't know what I'm doing. If you were anyone else, I'm hug you now, that is always easier for me than talking, the physical… To show how I feel is easier… But I can't touch you... "

Tears started running down your face again, and his body visibly jerks on the sofa. He is stopping himself from moving towards you. He is wrong, he has amazing self-control.

"Wren, I'm being a plonker, but give me a second, just one more second..." He lifts his hands and splays his fingers in a defensive gesture. "I said it wrong, I meant it's a torture because I constantly want more and feel like I'm abusing you by it as well. I don't want to hurt you, to scare you, to make your life miserable… I was worried I'd scare you, and I did. I didn't feel it at that moment, that you didn't want it, and I kissed you… Wren, I'm sorry..." His voice breaks, and you breathe out through rounded lips.

This is it. This is the moment you have been preparing for through all the excruciating therapy, through all those hours you spent crying in your bathroom, through reading and rereading the description of your trauma, until you thought your head would explode. You take a deep breath in and gather your thoughts. He is looking at his hands locked in front of him and doesn't lift his head when you start talking.


	24. Chapter 24

You haven't started your therapy to be with him, or to be able to kiss him, or maybe some time in the future be intimate with him. You started your therapy so that you could live, so you could talk to people, establish what you need and build it, so you could live and stop punishing yourself for something that never was your crime. Being with him is just one of those things, one of the things that you now understand you want and need. You move on the li-lo closer to him. You can't bring yourself to touch him, but you can try to talk.

"I wanted it. Firstly, John, I wanted it. The kiss. I wanted you to kiss me. It felt very good. You frightened me later, but I am back to the normal now. See?" He looks at you sideways. "And it's very quick these days. I can't believe how quick it is." You are speaking very fast, almost swallowing half the words, but you need to say it.

He is looking at you disbelievingly. He thinks you are pacifying him. It is a strange reversal of roles. And also, it's an astonishing realisation that other people need reassurance too. And that you can and should give it to them.

"I got scared that you'll leave me. The flat, that you'll leave the flat," you hurriedly correct yourself, but then you push yourself to speak what you really think. "I'm afraid you will break up with me. I don't understand why you keep on coming back, and I think you'll change your mind any moment." He is studying our face. He is looking for the right answer to what you said just now. You doubt it exists.

"Wren, based on what I read, I can't convince you of your self-worth, you are the only one who can do it. You need to learn to value yourself." He is right of course, and you nod. "But I can tell you why I keep on coming back. Would you like that?" He is still frowning, but it seems easier to breathe now. You nod again. "God, I wish I were a woman right now. You lot are so much better at talking about feelings." You look at him not quite believing what you hear. He smiles. It is a shaky smile, you both are still affected, but it is his smile, a John smile, warm and beautiful. "You are supposed to smack me and tell me I'm a chauvinistic pig."

You can't smack him but you mumble, "You are a chauvinistic pig." He chuckles quietly.

"You are exciting, Wren. Your mind is fascinating, you know things, you have an unusual angle of looking at everything. There are things that we both like, and things I've never heard of that you can tell me about. You like my jokes. Nobody likes my jokes," he is smiling wider now, and you bite your bottom lip. He does have an odd sense of humour, but you enjoy it. Your excessive vigilance though is ringing an alarm at the moment. You are somehow certain he is not saying what he is thinking.

"What aren't you saying, John?" He hums questioningly, but you see he knows. "John, please..."

"Wren, I obviously find you attractive physically." His tone is curt, and he drops his head. "Wren, honestly, I don't want to frighten you..." He starts again, and you emit a strange unnatural chuckle. He looks up at you and pauses with his mouth half open.

"John, are you not talking about it because you don't want to trigger me?"

"Yes, of course, I mean, how daft would it be to barge in with my randiness..." You chuckle again, this time it sounds like a hiccup.

"I've never been molested, I mean abused in a sexual way..." He cringes, and you suddenly feel sorry for him. A startling, almost unbelievable thought comes to your mind. Everything done to you is now affecting him. You've never realised. It's not just your trauma anymore, it's his too. You sit for a second with it, and then you catch his eyes. He is waiting for you to continue. "My foster father… He beat us up, my sisters and me… But he never..." You trail away. "And you are right, PTSD victims do not feel arousal, but it's only because fear is incompatible with arousal. But when I'm not scared I seem to… feel it..." You breathe out and move a bit closer to him. You are certain you have just switched from being eerie pale to red like a beetroot. "I do like you… And when you touch me… There are just things that frighten me..."

"Like touching the back of your head?" He looks guilty again, "I should have asked, it's just I've wanted to touch your hair for so long, and I just haven't thought…"

"You like my hair?" You look at him in astonishment. You are a ginger. It's also stubbornly curly, Thea dragged you into a salon, you have an undercut, longer on one side. Before the dates with him you'd often forgotten to even brush it.

"Wren, I like your everything," he mumbles, and somehow he looks grumpy.

"How am I supposed to know?" You blurt out, and he stares at you.

"I am here, am I not?" You stare back at him with equal astonishment on your face.

"How is that a given?" You sound squeaky. He is studying your face and then a wide grin spread on his face.

"We just don't understand each other, do we? It's like that barmy thing with Mars and Venus..." He is studying you, his eyebrows up to his hair in amusement, "You have no bloody idea, do you?'

"I probably don't..." You are really hoping you two will start understanding each other better now. He suddenly turns around, picks up a quilt from the back of the sofa and thrown it on your shoulders, carefully, without touching you. "You look cold." Your heart clenches.

"I was cold."

"Here you go then," he smiles to you. You once again consider moving closer to him. You don't know whether you are supposed to ask, and whether you'll have enough courage, when he interrupts your thoughts.

"Wren, I find you very attractive. You have an amazing face, and I find your body type very appealing." He speaks in a strange mechanical voice, and you stare at him. He suddenly guffaws and leans on the back of the li-lo. "I decided to give you factual information. Not to freak you out."

"That didn't sound like much of a compliment." You wonder if you are flirting, it sounds like it.

"How would you like me to voice it then?"

"You are the first bloke I've talked to for longer than half an hour except for shop talk! How would I know?" He is smiling from ear to ear now.

"I just realised that the corniest compliments will work on you." You pout. You didn't know you could pout.

"I am inexperienced, but I'm not thick. If you compare my eyes to stars, I'll notice that you are not trying very hard." You can't understand how this conversation is even happening, with its flirting and witty remarks, but you don't want to question it.

"And if I compare them to Baltic amber, will I get some points for trying?" Your heart flutters.

"Possibly..."

"Wren, you are..." He closes his eyes, and there is some sort of piercing tenderness on his face. You can't believe such beautiful emotions can be directed at you. He opens his eyes then, blue irises bright and dazzling, and he smiles to you, "You are like a bird. You are fast, and light, but you have strong hands. And cool… You are cool and fluid, like water, your skin is amazing, so smooth, and you are so thin… I slept with you that night, and you just fit into me. We fit, have you noticed? And when you hug me… And I'm absolutely crazy about your shoulder blades." Your mouth is probably agape in a very ungraceful manner. "To be honest I'm crazy about your everything. And the longer we are together, the more I notice. Like the freckles, and the small curls near the ears, and you pout… And I don't just mean that I notice new things about your body! And that's the best of things. You… have layers, Wren."


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: ****HisLordFluffiness****, a small bow to you for your metaphor of "an onion" :)**

**A/N#2: Mysterious ****Guest ****leaving reviews, I love you. If there are a few of you, I love you all! :)**

**A/N#3: OK, I made myself cry again by this chapter. I'm going to go write my Steampunk AU, it always cheers me up :)**

"Layers?" You feel giddy. It's a new feeling, you like it. "Like an onion?"

"What?" His eyes fly open. His face is still open and vulnerable, the line of his lips soft.

"Am I like an onion? You know, like in _Shrek_? _Ogres are like onions. They both have layers._" He is staring at you. You are warming up under the blanket. Maybe it's not because of the blanket. He smiles tentatively.

"Layers like in a book. Like in _The reader became the book; and summer night/ Was like the conscious being of the book._" You love his voice. It's warm, velvet, the rasp and the slight Northern distortion of vowels. You wish you heard him read poetry some day again. Maybe an audiobook.

"Wallace Stevens?" You lift a brow, and he guffaws.

"See? That's why we are perfect for each other, I love quotes, you know and remember more books than Borges." You smile to him. "My mother is fond of quotes, we have always played that game on the train, when you have to finish a quote and name the book. Now I always read on the plane." He exhales and finally leans back on the li-lo. "Wren, I have just talked more and longer that I have ever in my life talked about feelings. I am no chick, I need some sort of closure from you. Where are we now?"

"You don't talk to women you date?" You are stalling.

"I don't date. Wren, I asked you a question." You are gaping at him.

"Seriously?" You really cannot believe it. Maybe men and women _are _different species. "You have just disclosed an important piece of personal information, and you want me to answer your previous, honestly speaking, vague question?"

"How's me not dating news for you?" Now it's his turn to stare at you in astonishment. "I've already told you that."

"When?" Your voice is shrieky.

"I told you I don't bring women home, and just about ten minutes ago I told you I hadn't had serious relationships for a while. I dated in uni, it didn't work out." You are digesting his words.

"That's just..." You have no words, and you make strange wavy movement with your hand in front of his nose. His brows jump up. "I mean, that's not how my brain works! You need to say it differently."

"Say what?"

"That! I don't know... All of it… What it is you are doing here. Where it is going. What you want. How you want us to proceed. Why you are staying. You talked about my skin and how I fit… And it makes no sense to me…" Once you started talking, you can't seem to stop. You are panting.

"God, Wren, how much is going on in your brain at the same time?" He interrupts, but you honestly can't stop.

"On one hand, I understand you have already said something there, about how you feel, but it's not working this way in my brain... I'm really confused here..."

"If I said something, I meant it." The two of you are talking at the same time.

"...It's like in that book about men only declaring reality once…"

"...It _does _make sense. I am here with you..."

"...and unless something changes for them, they presume the status quo remains…"

"...I seriously haven't talked so much about feelings since grade five..."

"...But it's not the same for women, if you accept binary gender perception..."

"...As much as I enjoy talking to you in general..."

You both are speaking loudly, and then stop and look at each other.

"Why are we yelling?" You ask in a small voice.

"Because we are both worried the other one will bolt, perhaps?" He is smiling hesitantly.

"You are worried I'm going to bolt?!"

"Of course, I've already told you that!" He raises his voice again. He is right. He did. You're so afraid that he would, that his insecurities just don't register.

"I won't." You deadpan.

"Neither will I. I'm in love with you." He answers simply, and you close your previously half open mouth with a clank of teeth. He suddenly looks very surprised. "Huh... That was easier than I thought."

Your pulse rockets, you breathe out and push through the suffocating panic. You move into him and throw your arms around his neck. He accepts you into embrace, and you feel his heart pounding through his sweater.

It's an amazing feeling, to have him pressed to you, more of him, more of his heat that you've ever felt before, he is solid, present, his sweater is soft, and you take a greedy gulp of his fragrance. The cologne, the smell of his skin, the feeling of his cheek presses to yours, the tip of your nose is buried into the dark waves that escaped his ponytail and most of all the sensation of his neck your arms are encircling. You feel his palm slowly hover over your back, and you remember he said he liked the shoulder blades.

"You can..." You whisper.

"What?" He is whispering too.

"You can touch me, I'm not scared right now..." You feel his palm tenderly stroke your back.

"Thank you." His body went rigid when you hugged him, and now you feel it relaxing. He exhales carefully, and slightly tilts his head, gently rubbing his cheek to you.

"John..."

"Don't answer me… You don't have to… Just say if we are fine..." _Be kind to him._

"We are fine."

The two of you are sitting quietly for a bit, and then you exhale and slowly move one of your hands. The hair is as soft and luscious as you imagined so many times. There are grey streaks in it, some of the threads are curlier than the rest, and you push your fingers in them. He stills, and you think he might be holding his breath.

"You can touch mine too. It's OK..." You are still whispering, and his palm cups the back of your head. You jerk, and his hand halts. "I'm OK, it's the..."

"Fear-potentiated startle, I remember..." He murmurs, "Tell me if I'm going too far..." His fingers brush the short hair on the back of your head, and goosebumps run down your spine. You swallow and press into him harder. He slowly moves the tips of his fingers into the curls, and you softly breathe out.

"Alright?" You hum in agreement, and your fingers slip at the scorching skin on his nape. You suddenly realise the hot body pressed to your chest and stomach. You are immediately acutely aware of every one of his muscles. He is radiating heat through his clothes, he is massive, but somehow you aren't scared. He is basically spread under you, half sitting on the li-lo. Your knee is pressed to his thigh. It is rock hard. The fact that you are on top helps. He is tenderly stroking your hair.

"Do you actually have heightened libido?"


	26. Chapter 26

"Do you actually have heightened libido?" Your voice is raspy. He snorts, and the strange tension that was growing between the two of you is gone. You slightly move away and look at him. He is looking at you with tenderness.

"Well, I don't have sexual addiction if that's what you are asking about." His face is very close, and you see the little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes.

"Good to know. What then?" He lifts one brow, and you feel the already familiar clenching in the bottom of your stomach. You assume it's the hackneyed "inner walls."

His eyes are laughing, "I don't have compulsive behaviours, like obsessive masturbation or something. It's just pure biological, an increased level of testosterone. I've been tested." You feel your eyebrows hike higher. "It's an inherited trait, all Thoringtons just sort of get stuck in adolescent libidinousness."

And that's when you do the most embarrassing thing one can do at such moment. You can't help it. Your eyes fall on his crotch. He starts chuckling quietly. When he laughs his shoulders shake, you love his open, whole body merriment. You probably have the most ridiculous facial expression.

You are confused, and then you feel worried. Sex is the last thing that has ever been on your mind, but recently some thoughts of it flash through your mind. Tough luck, out of all men you chose the one with heightened libido to waken your timorous sensuality.

"Wren, with all honesty as much as I'm hoping we'll get there at some point, you really shouldn't worry about it now." You are trying to look into his eyes. You are not succeeding. He is still chuckling. "I am a big boy. I can handle it. Have been for years. And we have just agreed, right? You tell me if I go too far, and I ask. Deal?"

He is very close. "Deal," you murmur and lean in. He doesn't move, but his shoulder under your hand tenses. You press your lips to his, and he closes his eyes. That part is familiar already. He slightly opens his lips, and you savour the sensations. The leftover adrenaline is coursing your blood, and everything is heightened. You will crash soon, but right now your skin tingles all over.

You hesitantly put one of your hands on his chest, it is solid, all muscles, and you suddenly remember seeing him in the bathroom, for the first time, in his pants, drying his hair with a towel. He has a large, stark black, geometrical tattoo on his right shoulder, covering it and his upper arm like a pauldron, some of it spilling on his collarbone and pectoral muscle. There is another one, on the inner side of his left forearm, it is a very tasteful marine crest of some sort, an octopus over two cutlasses, and the third one, a large oak tree hugging his right calf. It is almost funny that both of you started your acquaintanceship by seeing each other starkers. He at least had his pants on, you were completely naked, wet and weak on the shower floor when he pulled you out. Your mind switches from surprisingly lustful memories of his naked body to nauseating realization that he saw your scars. You move away from him.

He slowly opens his eyes, his lips are bright pink, and there is light blush above his beard. He sees your face and sobers up.

"What is it?" His voice is very low and gentle, and you gulp. "Wren… You can tell me."

"I… I am starting swimming classes next week." He smiles slightly.

"That's a good idea. I swim three times a week. It's fun."

"It's for cardio, I need to be raising my heartrate systematically, it reduces anxiety sensitivity, I'll have less reaction to triggers." He nods. "And it's supposed to help with body image." His eyes are soft, and you blurt out, "I'll hate it."

"Why?" There is no judgement in his tone, he is not rushing to reassure you, and you relax a bit.

"I mean, besides the...scars, I don't want people to see my body. I get it, thanks to Twiggy people like me are considered OK, but I am such a..." You cringe and chew on your bottom lip.

"Little bird?" His tone is teasing, and you look up at him. His eyes are brilliant, and you remember that he said he was in love with you. You want to believe him. You are still half lying on him, one of his hands on your back, and his fingers twitch. "You are gorgeous, Wren. I mean, it's hard to tell under all these tea cosies you wear, but you are smashing."

"You saw me without a tea cosy," you mumble, and he smirks. You really want him to compliment you. You are seeking validation, and after all he is sort of in relationships with you.

"I did," he confirms. You are waiting. He is quiet, his fingers lightly brushing your back. You think you are allowed to ask.

"And?" You sound squeaky. He lifts his eyes from your collarbones he was studying.

"And what?" You wonder if he is pretending. He isn't dim after all. You feel slightly irritated.

"And how do I look without a tea cosy?" You are very warm, from his body heat and the blanket covering you both, and you are pretty certain it's his erection you feel under your thigh. His smell and the small caresses of his fingers through your sweater make you disoriented, and you lose inhibitions. Or maybe you just want his to flatter you. The corners of his lips twitch.

"Wren… I'm not sure where me complimenting you will turn into me freaking you out with graphic stuff, so… What would you like to know?" He tilts his head, and now his eyes are on your neck. You honestly aren't sure what he is looking at there.

"Well, how bad is it?" You ask in a small voice, and he meets your eyes.

"Bad?"

"John, I have an eating disorder, I have a distorted self-perception, I need you to tell me what I look like. I mean, from your point of you. I'm gathering data." He hikes up his eyebrows again.

"Right… Well, you are very beautiful, Wren. Yeah, you are sort of skinny, but it's good. You are delicate." That certainly doesn't make you feel validated.

"Delicate?" He chuckles.

"Yeah, like slender, thin. Delicate." He pauses for a second. "You have beautiful legs. I think." He is definitely taking a piss. That's cruel. You start slowly moving away from him. "Wren?" He doesn't stop you physically, it's smart, but his tone is questioning. You feel tears stinging your eyes. You are being an idiot, but you are suddenly so very tired. And you feel disappointed. "Wren, did I say something wrong?" You want to tell him he is a massive idiot. You wonder if it'll sound as good out loud as it does in your head. You've never called anyone an idiot to their face before. You are very close now.

"No, no, of course not..."

"Wren, I can see that I said something wrong. Please, stop moving away from me." His tone is pleading, and he is trying to catch your eyes. "Was it the legs? I'm sorry I mentioned them." The realisation dawns on you. Your eyes fly up, and you stare at him agape.

"Are you not saying anything because you think I'll feel sexually threatened?" His face wavers.

"Well, I mean, yeah..." He frowns, and a hysterical bark of laughter bursts out of you.

"John, I feel much worse thinking that you have nothing nice to say, besides that you _think_ I might have beautiful legs." He seems to be getting it too now. "You saw me naked, I'd expect you to remember something..."

"Oh I do remember everything! It's sort of hard to forget." It's still not good, but he is figuring it out. He shakes his head. "I'm a plonker. OK, let's try again," he slightly shifts, sitting up a bit more upright, and you shift with him, your eyes meeting his. He slowly breathes out through rounded lips, gathering his thoughts. "Wren, I do think about your body a lot, and I think it's beautiful. You are… graceful. And I'm not here just to talk about David Bowie and Chechen terrorists. And I am a man. We do think about sex a lot. I'm just not sure what might make you uncomfortable..." He gives you a questioning look.

"I don't think I'm in danger of hearing some disgusting pull talk from you." You lie back on him, splaying your hand on his chest, and after a small mental preparation you put your head on his shoulder.

"Of course not, but I mean, if I mention..." You suddenly feel better, he is insecure.

"Hips?" He chuckles shakily.

"Hips. Or shoulders, or..."

"Tits?" He freezes under you, and you giggle. You all of a sudden are comfortable in this conversation. "Not that there is much to mention, to be honest." You honestly think they are too small. But a tiny part of your mind is also milking him for information. He chuckles as well.

"Enough to make me think about them. Often. And now that you mentioned them, thank you very much, that's all I'm going to be thinking about for a few hours." He halts and waits for your reaction. You are checking it too. You are not freaked out.

"Anything else returns to you in your dreams?" Your voice is shaking, but you are proud of yourself. You are somehow certain he'll appreciate your attempts in flirting.

"Your bum. Definitely the bum." His tone is mockingly serious, and you giggle.

"Really?"

"Oh god yes," he answers way too quickly, and you sit up and look at his face. His eyes are sparkling with laughter, and you throw all caution aside and kiss him. He tastes amazing.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Of course, I'm tying all my stories together :P **

**It's the same man and woman all the time! So it's all oaks, octopi and cutlasses, guffaws and Wren's famous bum :D He is a sweet tooth, she giggles when aroused :D **

The two of you are kissing for a while on the li-lo.

"God, Wren, you are amazing..." He murmurs, and his lips are hovering over your jaw. Something pushes you, you tilt your head in an obvious invitation. The kiss is light and feather like, but you understand you've reached your limit. The tingling and the strange thrumming at the back of your head are becoming too much. You gasp, and he places the second kiss on your jaw, closer to your ear. It's burning, and you press your palm into his chest. He has learnt his lesson. He straightens up and looks at you.

"Tired?" As soon as he asks, your head swims. You were going on the adrenaline, and now you feel dizzy from exhaustion. If you don't lie down right now, you'll fall asleep on him. He gives you an attentive look and starts moving from under you.

"John..." He halts.

"Hm?"

"One more time…" Your cheeks start burning, but he does everything right. He grins widely and tenderly kisses your lips in a small chaste kiss. You smile, and he gets up from the sofa.

He dresses up quickly, you are standing, vertical only thanks to the door frame, and wrapping the scarf around his neck he opens the door. He turns around, and you smile to him sleepily.

"Good night, Wren."

"Good night," there is a pause, and you savour the next phrase. "I'll ring you." He nods and quickly leaves, softly closing the door behind him. You crash as soon as you reach your bed. You've only dragged off your denim and sweater, you don't even have energy to brush your teeth.

You work for the next few days, there is a project you've been postponing, a boring logo development for a small pharmaceutical company. You get a text from John the morning after, it's clearly the beginning of a quote. _"__They say when you are missing someone that they are probably feeling the same…"_ You don't know this one, you google it. It's Edna St. Vincent Millay. The end is _"...__but I don't think it's possible for you to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now__." _You'd like to say you thought it was corny and stayed unaffected, but you giggle and reread it an embarrassing amount of times.

You are not certain what a chick is supposed to answer to such text. So you send _"__Love is like an hourglass…" _It's by Jules Renard and ends with_ "...with the heart filling up as the brain empties." _He answers with a laughing smiley.

Thea shows up on the third day. She takes a shower and knocks at the door of your room.

"Can we go shopping?" She seems distressed, and shopping is her usual therapy. By shopping she means going to a book store for you, where she gets to chat up a boffin and gift him with a night of unforgettable shag. You don't ask but you wonder about Jimmy. You've been in therapy for so long that you recognise unhealthy compulsive behaviours when you see them. She is trying to distract herself. You two never interfere with each other's life.

You suddenly think that's not what a good friend should do. It's a new thought. Previously you thought you were friends because she never caused discomfort for you. Thea is safe. But now you remember that Thea is also human. You chew on your bottom lip without turning to her, and then you take a deep breath in. You turn on your desk chair and hope the truth isn't written all over your face. For the first time in your life you are going to pretend to be ignorant because you care about a person.

"Actually, it's perfect timing. I need a swimsuit." She is staring at you. She is too thrown off by the fact that you are talking about shopping. You buy your clothes online. And you are talking about a swimsuit.

"A swimsuit?"

"Yeah," you drop your eyes. It would have been a natural gesture, you are uncomfortable with the topic. It also allows you to hide your lying eyes from her. "I'm supposed to go to a pool five times a week. It's for anxiety regulation therapy."

"Oh..." She breathes out and asks carefully. "Where do you want to shop?"

A striking thought flashes through your mind, you have been a horrible friend to her. You have taken her for granted. She doesn't ask _Where do you want to go? _She leaves you a choice to offer to look up the suits online.

"I actually wanted to try to go to a shop..." You look up at her, her eyes are giant. "You know maybe in that small shopping street you mentioned before, not a shopping center of course… Just maybe one small shop..."

She is feigning nonchalance, as if her reclusive anorexic friend hasn't just asked her to go swimsuit shopping.

"Sure."

"And maybe we can get a lunch there too. You know, John mentioned the bakery there, apparently they have brill M&S like sarnies." She is studying you. And then she smiles, and the Thea you know is back.

"I bet he doesn't eat sarnies, not with the body like his." You blush furiously and remember the said body under your hands.

"He also has a tattoo on his shoulder," you blurt out. You feel exhilarated. You are certain you have just pulled your friend out of a sexual bender. Her brows jumps up.

"OK, Leary, you opened your mouth, spill then." You giggle. You two haven't talked about John. You suddenly want to. You'd expect it to be private, your own treasure, the first good thing to happen to you, but it's Thea. You trust Thea.

"The first time I saw him he was wearing only his pants and was drying his hair after a shower. In the bathroom," you unnecessarily point your finger in the direction of it. "There is another tattoo, here..." You brush fingers on the inner side of your forearm, "And on the right calf." She hums and nods approvingly.

"Tell me more about the shoulder one."

"I'd say it's Polynesian style, goes down to the elbow, and here..." You cover your collarbone and then move your hand below, "And on the muscle here." Thea's eyes are distant. "It's very distinct."

"The tattoo?" She is quite clearly savouring the mage.

"The muscle. It's like rock hard." She jerks out of her thoughts and stares at you.

"You've touched him?!" There is pure shock on her face.

"Quite a lot actually. We copped off on the li-lo." You sound way too proud for a twenty six year old woman talking about a make out session on a sofa. She barks a throaty laughter and excitedly clapping her hands.

"Oh Wrennie, that's ace news! OK, get your coat, we are going shopping, and you'll tell me everything!" You smile hesitantly. She seems back to her normal cheerful self, but you will remember the grave expression in her eyes. You are the last person to judge, but perhaps she needs to talk about it. You need to process it, and perhaps you can do something about it. It's an astonishing sensation, to be the one who worries and the one who decides to interfere.

You find a one-piece swimsuit, according to Thea it's vintage 80s style, on top it basically looks like a tee, and there are wide shorts at the bottom. It costs an appalling amount of money, but it is the first item of clothing you've bought in the last thirteen months.

You two have lunch, and you tell her about John. You can't share much, she pulls words out of you, but you feel she needs it, and you give her that. You realise the two of you have never really talked, about telly and mundane stuff perhaps, but never further than that. She is mostly interested in the physique, and talking about the long muscles on his back and the coarse black hair on his chest makes you feel very hot. Again, you have always thought it was a figure of speech. It isn't. You jerk off your infinity scarf. And then you freeze in a middle of sentence, your hand twitching on the table. You have just imagined treading your fingers in the black hair on his sternum, where it's the thickest. Thea triumphantly yippees. She knows exactly what you are thinking about.


	28. Chapter 28

You go to the pool on Tuesday half past eleven in the morning. Your assumption is that is when the least amount of people will be there. And you are right. There are two mothers with their children in the kiddie pool, it's behind a fogged glass wall, you hear their squeals. There is one older lady swimming in the other pool. The biggest one is empty. The water looks so blue that you need a moment to stand and stare at it. You expected to be scared. You are not. Some strange excitement is cursing your veins. You've never in your life have been in water rather than a bath. You've paid for an hour with an instructor.

He comes out of the side room, and you realise you should have asked for a female one. He is gorgeous. He is wearing a bright yellow tee and swimming shorts, the iconic whistle on his neck, and he looks like an ad for speedos. You gulp and make a step back from him. Panic kicks in, and you close your eyes and regulate your breathing. You have prepared, you've gone through an exposure session last night. He is the first person you'll be interacting on everyday basis for an extended period of time who isn't aware of your history. He is not supposed to look like a male underwear model.

"Hey there!" Your eyes fly open. He has a radiant smile, dark brown eyes with long fluffy lashes, and a plump bottom lip. Masculine jawline, chestnut hair, the threads curling up probably on their own, but still looking like he spent three hours coiffuring them, white teeth and a large, long fingered hand that he is stretching to you.

You decided this would be an exercise in not using your history as a shield guarding you from people. If they are aware that's all they see in you, a victim of childhood abuse. And in a strange sick way, it's easier. You don't have to build relationships, you don't have to worry about making an impression. If they know you are not normal, they don't expect anything from you. You talked to John about it last night on the phone. He took a pause and then softly said, "You are normal, Wren..." You still think he might be the only one who isn't freaked out by it. That was the most annoying thing about him at the beginning. He treated you as a normal person. Now you are starting to think that's why you let him in.

"I'm Auggie," the voice is fruity and very chuffed. He altogether seems like one of those rare people everything about whom is just screaming "healthy." Open smile, bright eyes, glossy hair, muscles bulging under his clothes, you bet he has never in his life experienced social anxiety.

Yours kicks in. You hate your swimsuit, you have checked three times in the changing room if the scars show, they don't, Thea checked in the store and home, twice. You hate how cold you are, how shaky, you want to cry.

You ground yourself, you carefully bring your mind onto your breathing, three deep breaths in. "Hi, I'm Wren."

"You look nervous, Wren, have you ever had swimming classes before?" His voice is friendly and polite, he is still smiling. Luckily he also stopped rather far away, he'd be looming over you. You estimate he is only an inch shorter than John. He is much narrower though, he has the iconic body of a swimmer, lean and wide shouldered. And again, he is barefoot. Your mind is thrashing, from him being more naked than you have ever seen a man in the last fifteen years, except John for those few first moments, to the fact that your teeth are chattering.

"Yes, I mean no. I've never swum in my life. And I'm very nervous." You are frantically remembering what is appropriate to say to a person in such social situation. You've talked about it with Dr. Coutts. "I am also not very comfortable with being undressed. And being touched." You curse internally. You should have waited for his return remark first, and then shared more of your anxieties. You peek. His face has the same calm amiable expression.

"That's fine, Wren. Thank you for telling it to me openly. That's the best way to go. We'll take one step at a time, OK?" Something about his even tone lets you exhale easier, and the nasty cold coil you had in your stomach loosens a bit.

You take the ladder down in the water, you are going slowly, stuffing the thought that you probably look very odd into the back of your mind. You are repeating your mantra, if this class turns into a disaster, you can always go to a different pool. You tell yourself it doesn't matter what Auggie Anderson thinks about you. You can leave now and never see him again. He seems absorbed in something in his clipboard, and you finally stand on the floor of the pool. The sensation is amazing. You slowly move your hands in the water, and suddenly you giggle.

"It's great, isn't it?" He chuckles warmly. "I grew up on a lake, and I always say that water can be your friend if you let it and play by rules."

"What are the rules?" you ask hastily, and he grins wider.

"Oh, you are an overachiever aren't you? I should have known, considering the tense frown," he gestures between his thick black eyebrows with a pen he has in his hand. You feel sharply nauseated and clench your teeth. You think you've said something wrong. He sees your face and adds lightly, "I can already see you are going to be one of the best of my students. Those who are so ambitious are always great at swimming."

You are staring at him. 'Ambitious' is the last word you'd apply to yourself. And then you remember what Dr. Coutts told you. People are not perceptive. They randomly pick traits they see in you and interpret them, mostly basing the judgement on their own personalities. You asked about rules, he assumed you are an overachiever. He thought you jumped at an opportunity to exceed, you are meanwhile scared of making a wrong step. He makes an assumption based on what he would feel. He is probably a competitive sportsman.

"I just don't want to drown," your voice is shaky, and he lifts his eyes at you.

"You won't. That's what I'm here for." In his own way he is comforting. He is calm, confident, self-assured. He just sees a skinny girl who wants to learn to swim, you are just a client. Suddenly the anonymity and his disinterest are exhilarating. You two start the class.

You do indeed turn out to be a good swimmer. You are light, but you have astonishingly strong arms and legs. He stays on the edge, outside the pool, giving instructions, complimenting, encouraging. He is a good teacher, he is also chatting with you to make you feel better. He doesn't ask anything but talks about his childhood and tells some funny anecdotes from his work, which you doubt are even half true.

At the end of the hour you climb out, tired and feeling strangely heavy. You stretch your hand first. His is very large and surprisingly cool. And then you realise you are comparing to John's.

"See you tomorrow, Wren." He smiles and leaves, his nose immediately in his clipboard again. You sit on the nearest bench, fold in two and hide your face in your knees. You did it.


	29. Chapter 29

Three days later you finish your project and ring John. He sounds very happy to hear you. And then he offers to have a sleepover at his place. He suggests you two watch _Doctor Who _all night since it's Friday, and then you could stay in his flat. "We crash when we crash," he says. Or you could call a cab and go home if you don't feel comfortable. You ask for an hour to think it over, he agrees lightly. You call him back and tell him you'll be at his place at eight.

You are standing in his hall and realise it was a horrible idea. The prospect of spending a night with him in the same flat, the same room and the same bed, since he has no sofa and that's not the plan anyways, throws you off. It feels like all your progress in the therapy has gone down the loo. You are shaking, and it feels like you are getting thrown back in your treatment one week per each passing minute.

"This is my favourite pillow," you fidget with its corner, feeling endlessly uncomfortable. You feel like you are intruding, it doesn't matter that you are literally bringing two objects into his flat, a tiny beauty case with a toothbrush and couple bottles of products and the pillow. He is smiling softly and gives it an attentive look. You shortly wonder if it looks too old, or too dirty, or the colours clash with his bedroom. Your mind jumps to his bedroom, and you feel dizzy. You regulate your breathing and tell yourself the pillow is clean, it is not new, but it looks nice. It is stylish. You felt like an idiot when you asked Thea about it, but she confirmed it. It's just a pillow, you keep on repeating to yourself, it's just a pillow.

"Is it a wren?" He is looking at the bird embroidered on it, and you clench your jaws. That you haven't thought of. You didn't anticipate him to object to the content of the picture, and not the pillow itself. He is right though, that's naff. It is indeed a wren, embroidered in indigo blue, with a few bright colourful details. You shortly wonder, what you were thinking. You should have done something, given you can't sleep without it, but you surely could have thought of something.

"No… I don't know..." Your throat is constricted. You fight an urge to close your eyes. That would be a typical dissociation reaction, to close your eyes and make the world disappear together with his inquisitive blue eyes and your stupid pillow.

"Oh?" He cocks a brow. "You are a compulsive liar as well?" That feels like a punch into your stomach. One of your issues in therapy was your excessive caution with words. You were so afraid of saying something not quite right, not quite true, not precise enough, that you would end up not talking at all. One does tend to be afraid to accidentally fail to delegate the whole truth if one receives additional blows for that. You are probably quickly gaining greenish tinge because you can see his pupils dilate. He obviously starts understanding that he once again breached one of those topics. You are taking measured breaths in. He is going to apologise now, but it won't help. You already felt like running, now you are clenching your mobile in your trousers pocket. The number for a cab is on a speed dial actually, you tend to use it a lot.

But he doesn't back off and doesn't apologise. Instead he sits on the li-lo and pats the spot near him. "Come, Wren, let's chat." You tuck yourself in the corner of the li-lo, still pressing the pillow to your chest. There is a foot of space between you two. He gives you a serious, calm look. "Wren, I want you to understand something. I'm going to sometimes say things that are going to upset you, to remind you of the past, and you have every right to react to them. But I'm not going to think twice before saying every phrase to you. You have every right to tell me it wasn't OK, but I also have every right to say stuff… No walking on eggshells, Wren." You suddenly feel angry.

"What was it then? Were you testing me? Are you looking for triggers?"

"Wren..." His tone is soft and warm, but you don't let him interrupt you.

"Did you say it to see how I would react?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he is still keeping his tone even, "I said it first and thought after. But like I said, I am not going to consider every word before saying it to you. I'm going to say what I think, and you will return the favour. How about that?" Your throat is still choked, your nails dug into your pillow. He is patiently waiting, his large body relaxed, he is leaning on the back of the lilo. You are trying to process what he said, but you are too confused, and your mind is swirling. The natural reaction comes, you get mad.

"My stepfather would give me additional three blows if he thought I was lying, or he pretended he thought so. If he didn't like how I formed sentences… He would say I was too wordy and accuse me of purposefully being vague. And then he would take out his belt." You are looking directly into his eyes, waiting for his reaction. His eyebrows twitch a little bit, but otherwise his face is still unshaken.

Dr. Coutts warned you of this. You have a martyrdom streak. You do use your history to throw people off. It's easier than building meaningful relationships. You shock people and bask in their mortification.

"I am very sorry to hear it, Wren. He was a sick fuck, and I understand now why sometimes you are so careful in expressing your thoughts." He shifts, places his elbows on his knees, and steeples his fingers. He looks at you sideways. He is still very calm. "I like the way you talk though. Not when you are that cautious, but when you chat, you know? You use funny bookish words, and your sentences are so convoluted sometimes that it takes some time to entangle them." He smiles. "I love it. So you can talk any way you want, really, I'm still crazy about you."

He is not trying to touch you, but it feels like you were looking forward to it. You clench a fist, hiding it behind the pillow, because you suddenly clearly imagine stretching your hand and touching his shoulder under the soft cashmere sweater. You know now there is a round bone there, your fingers will bump into it, and firm hot muscles, and if you let yourself be a bit braver you can push your hand towards his neck, and your thumb will dive into a hollow, the one that goes down to his clavicles. But you are not OK enough to do it. And you inhale sharply. You plummet down from imagining feeling his warm skin under your fingers into a jarring understanding how not OK you are. You are planning to spend a night with the bloke, and you can't bring yourself to touch him. You gulp and close your eyes. You know you are avoiding reality, but it's easier to regulate your breathing this way.

"Do you want a cuppa?" Apparently he stood up, his voice is coming from above, and you open your eyes. He is standing, his hands pushed in his trousers pockets. "Let's go to the kitchen, you need a proper tour of the flat anyroad."


	30. Chapter 30

You leave your things in the living room and drag yourself into the kitchen. He is making tea.

"I am sorry..." You are apologising for such behaviour for the first time in your life. You haven't had enough social interactions for that before. You and Thea just pretended it didn't happen, Dr. Coutts is your therapist. And you've always felt you just have to hide your outbursts. But they affect him too, you understand it now. You should have given him the benefit of doubt. You jumped to conclusions and allowed yourself believe he was being a prick.

He turns around and smiles to you softly. "Apology accepted. And I'm sorry I wasn't careful with words. But I honestly think we should be direct and open with each other. Talk like everybody else." You nod.

"And I'll try not to believe what my head immediately assumes." He freezes with a teaspoon of Assam in his hand.

"What does your head immediately assume?" You bite your bottom lip. You should have kept your mouth shut. "Wren?"

You tuck yourself on a stool and stare at your hands on the kitchen table. "All sorts of things… Before I thought you had some sort of a strange thing for my history since I'm so… not OK," you lift your eyes at him. The spoon is still hanging in mid air. "I don't think so now!" You rush to reassure. "You told me… That… You know… But as soon as you say something, my first reaction is that you changed your mind, that you don't… like me anymore… That I am..."

"Wren, if I change my mind, as you put it, I'll tell you." He finally topples the leaves into a pot and reaches for a kettle. He suddenly hisses and drops the kettle on the floor. Boiling water flies everywhere, and you scream.

You are not sure what happens next, but you come back to your senses already in the living room. You have squeezed yourself in a corner, you are shaking, tears running down your face. He has rushed after you.

"Wren, it's OK, I'm sorry, I just burnt my hand..." He stretches his other hand to you, and you whimper. He kneels in front of you and speaks softly, "Wren, I'm sorry I frightened you. Wren, can I touch you? Do you want a hug?" Your heart is pounding in your throat, you hardly hear him through the loud hum in your ears. Hot water spraying everywhere was the worst possible trigger. And yet you are returning to the baseline. It is astonishingly quick. You are far from feeling OK, but you are not screaming, and you recognise him.

You recognise him, it's John, in his soft sweater, worry in his blue eyes, and you sob and throw yourself at him. His arms go around your back, in a light non-intrusive gesture, and you are crying loudly. The two of you are sitting on the floor, and he starts carefully rocking you from side to side. He is scorching, he smells like Chelsea buns, he was probably warming them up in the stove, and you claw at his shoulders.

"He hit me with a kettle once, he was angry and lost control..." You can't believe it, you are talking about your trauma. "You saw the scars, on the lower back, they are so ugly..." His arms go around you a bit tighter, and he buries his face into your neck. He is mumbling.

"I am sorry, I am so sorry..." You just let yourself cry. He is stroking your back. You calm down, and immediately you feel very drowsy. Your head drops on his shoulder.

"Wren, do you want a nap?" You mumble an agreement, and he starts getting up. He carefully pulls you under your arm, and you two wobble into his bedroom. He picks up your pillow on the way, and soon you bury your face into it under his quilt.

You wake up and stare at the alarmclock on his bedside table. You slept for two hours. You find him in the kitchen. You are standing in the doorframe, squinting from the bright light, and he gets up from a stool and comes up to you. You make a step ahead and press into him. The first thing you notice is that he smells like cigarette smoke.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't." You tense, you don't understand why he'd lie. "I borrowed a fag from the neighbour. I was… upset." You lift your eyes and look at him. He is frowning. You try not to place the blame for the ruined evening on yourself. Your first thought is that you are useless and shouldn't even try, but then you remind yourself that many would have freaked out. It was after all three liters of boiling water all over the room.

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be ridiculous," his answer is sharp, and you jerk. He exhales, "I'm sorry, I'm not angry with you. I just..."

"What?" Your voice is desperate, you need him to talk, you need something to base your evaluation of the situation.

"What happened to you… I know it intellectually, but when I'm shoved face down into it, and it's so real... Like the kettle. I just get very angry." He is not looking at you, his eyes are very dark. He is also clenching a fist, and you step back. Alarm is ringing in your head. There is danger and aggression in him at the moment. He is still lost in his thoughts. "Where is your foster father now?"

You hardly hear his question, you are trying to shake off the sudden terror. You remind yourself you are not afraid of John, but right now you might be. It's like a nightmare when you are looking at a person, and although they look like someone you know it's not them.

He blinks, returns to reality and sees your probably giant eyes. "Goodness, Wren, I'm sorry!" He stretches his hand to you, you squeak. "Bugger..." He steps back, his tone is sincerely remorseful. "It's the temper, I told you… I'm sorry, Wren. I swear to you I'm not violent. I don't get into punch-ups even. Luckily I'm rarely tempted."

You immediately look at his fists. They are massive, you gulp. He opens his hands palms up.

"Wren, please… Can we go back to having tea?" His tone is pleading. "I'll make tea again, you just wait for me in the living room, OK?"

"I'll help," you croak, your head is still spinning after the flood of panic, but you step to him and put your hands into his. His palms are firm and warm, and you remember how they felt on your back. You are still shaking from envisioning them lifted before a punch, but you make yourself concentrate on reality. You rub the inner side of his wrist with your thumb. There is a small scar there. You are looking at it.

"I fell off a bike when I was thirteen," his voice is soft, and you lift your eyes at him. His lashes flutter, and you don't want to wait for him to ask permission. You get up on your tiptoes and press your lips to his. He carefully puts his hands on your shoulders and sighs into the kiss. You are immediately disoriented from his kisses, even if you are not happy with the flavour. You move away and wrinkle your nose.

"I don't like the fag." He opens his eyes. "I can't taste you." He laughs.

"And the fun part is that you don't even understand how erotic some things you say and do are." You gape, and he chuckles. It's not a guffaw, but the two of you are fine.


	31. Chapter 31

You two eat the Chelsea buns and drink tea. He is stirring another fifty six spoons of sugar in his second mug of tea, you get up and walk to the window. You are studying the little pots with herbs, you have no plants in your flat, you just never thought of buying one. They are beautiful, so fresh, so alive. You touch a dark green leaf on one of them. Your nose recognises thyme.

"Thymus vulgaris," his tone is teasing, and you throw him a look over your shoulder. His eyes are laughing, he is taunting you. You give him a "are you kidding me with Latin" look. You do have an answer to his challenge,

"A perennial herbaceous plant, used by Ancient Egyptians for embalming, by Greeks for baths and as an incense, believed to be the source of courage. In Middle Ages was put under the pillow, considered to be a cure of nightmares," you gently rub the leaf, "In some Levantine countries the condiment zaatar contains it as a vital ingredient. It is a common component of the 'bouquet garni', and of 'herbes de Provence'. And this is not thymus vulgaris, this is thymus citriodorus, note the citrus scent." You turn your head and realise that he is standing very close. He is looking down at you, there is some new expression in his eyes.

"How do you do this?" Something in his low quiet voice makes you shiver, but it's not from cold or fear. Your skin tingles.

"Photographic memory and no social life?" You offer an explanation, and he stretches his hand toward your fingers that were touching thyme. You put your hand on his palm, and it's like a jolt of electricity through your body. His eyes are dark, and he is leaning down to your lips. You close your eyes, anticipating the familiar warm caress, but suddenly he lets you go and steps back from you. Some sort of pained expression runs over his face. You don't understand what's going on.

"We should finish tea and move to the bedroom, I mean, to start watching," he twirls on his heels and rushes to the door out of the kitchen, "Excuse me for a moment." You are standing, your hand still mid-air. Your thoughts are panicked, and you are grounding yourself. Sex, it has to do with sex. You don't know much, but you are not twelve. Although contemporary twelve year olds might have more experience than you do. No judgement obviously.

You quickly finish your tea and stare at his mug. Suddenly you start giggling. It's hysterical, and you can't stop. Normally men are considered to be mindlessly attracted to a body, this one got randy from your encyclopedic knowledge of herbs. You lift your fingers to your nose, the scent is spicy and fresh. Either option would freak you out, were he after your body, or aroused by your intellect, but somehow this is slightly funny.

You feel suddenly hot. Your encyclopedic knowledge isn't limited to herbs and cameo actors on _Doctor Who_. You read up on sexuality in C-PTSD victims as well. You feeling some sort of arousal is a big thing already. You do feel it. You are not certain about anything, it has never been on your mind before, but you squirm on the chair, move mugs and sugar bowl around on the table, and then push yourself off the stool, and walk to the bathroom.

And he is being a gentleman. You immediately wonder what exactly he might be doing in that bathroom. You are trying to chase some of the barmiest ideas away, but they are insistent. You knock at the door. "John? Is everything alright?" It is nice to ask this question. You giggle again, usually it's you suffering through an anxiety episode behind a bathroom door.

"Yeah, rad, just a mo..." His voice is slightly raspy, and that's when it hits you. No way he is doing what you think he is doing, but now you can't get rid of the thought. And you have done research on male sexuality as well. He could be, it's fast for them. You make a step back, and then the door opens, and he is standing in the doorframe. You should stop staring, but you can't help it. Your eyes are roaming him, as if you could see the evidence. You are being a moron, unless you were to catch a man actually pleasuring himself, you wouldn't be able to tell, having no knowledge in that area. His cheeks are flushed, and you really shouldn't look at his crotch, but you do. Your eyes fly up and meet his. His eyebrows are jerked up.

"Wren, what are you doing?"

"I was worried. You left. Suddenly. I thought you might feel sick." You are speaking too fast, and of course you blush. The cheeks are burning so much that it hurts.

"I needed a minute to myself." That is a very bad answer in this situation. You emit a strangled giggle and clasp your hands over your mouth. "Wren?" He looks so confused that the laughter bursts out of you. In a second your whole body is shaking, you are roaring, and stepping away from him, you bump your back into the opposite wall. Your stomach starts hurting from laughing, and you slide down on the floor. He is staring down at you.

"I thought… I thought..." You can't talk, "I suddenly… imagined… you were..." You make an eloquent gesture with your hand. His eyes are wide open.

"I washed my face with cold water, Wren." You laugh louder, your arms wrapped around your middle.

"Oh my god… I can't… it's so bloody funny… I was behind the door and was thinking… god..." You can't breathe, he looks slightly alarmed. You are having a strange reaction from his point of view. "Oh… Give me a moment… I'll calm down… God… And I'll explain why me thinking you were wanking there was funny..." You drop your forehead on your knees and let yourself laugh. He slowly sits on the floor to your right, not touching you, and is attentively studying you. His slightly concerned, befuddled expression adds three more minutes to your hysterics.

Eventually you quiet down, and with your face pressed to your knees you mumble, "I am twenty six and a virgin. And I swear to you ten minutes ago was the first time in my life that I've thought of a man's penis." You don't dare lifting your face. "And I don't know much but I thought you looked randy..."

"I was randy," his tone is soft, and you peek with one eye. There is a small tender smile in the corners of his lips. "Technically speaking, I am still randy, I am just not..." He pauses, not sure how to continue.

"You don't have an erection?" You are trying to help, and he chuckles.

"I got distracted. Your laughing fit got me worried."

"Sorry..." You whisper softly and hide your face again. You two are sitting on the floor in his corridor, his long legs stretched in front of him, you are curled in a ball, and the two of you are talking about his erection. "And how often does it happen?"

"What 'it'? An erection?" You 'mmhmm' in agreement. "Quite often. Why?"

"What did I do?" You slightly turn your face to him. "What did I do to cause it?" His face is an iconic image of disbelief.

"Do? You don't have to do anything. You are just… here, and it's up." You will need time to digest this information.

"All the time?"

"A lot of it," he is nonchalant but his eyes are guarded. He is trying not to freak you out. You are shocked yourself but you realise you are not, you are excited.

"And how do you cope?"

"I definitely do not wank in my bathroom while you are having tea in my kitchen," he sounds grumpy, and you giggle. "Wren, the last thing I want is for you..."

"To feel pressured," you interrupt, "I know. And thank you. But I asked myself, remember?" He is studying you but whatever he sees in your face makes him visibly relax.

"What do you want to know?"


	32. Chapter 32

You are looking at him, pressing your cheek to your knees, arms wrapped around your legs, and he smiles to you tenderly.

"You are very beautiful, Wren." It is a simple statement, and you feel your heart skip a beat. You've thought it was a figure of speech as well. You are gaining new appreciation for harlequin novels. You don't know what to say. But you want to say something, show him you appreciate, show him you care. You stretch your hand to him, and he picks up your fingers. His are warm and strong, he is gently stroking the pulps of yours, and you gulp. There is no hunger in his eyes, just warmth.

What does one say in this case? You think you are in love with him too, but your mind is swirling. He is the first person you let close to youself, you don't know how much you can trust your judgement. You like him, that much is clear, everything about him, you like him so much that even a thought of making the next step doesn't frighten you. You are wrong, it does frighten you, but less than you expected, and there is a tinge of something that you can't call anything else but curiosity.

"I want to try... Not now, I mean not all of it, maybe later... But something…" You should have rehearsed this statement in your head. It surely didn't come out right. On the other hand, it is such a vague thought, that perhaps it doesn't have the right way of being put into words. He is still smiling, his fingers drawing circles on your palm.

"I am glad," he slightly pulls your hand, it's not a solicitation, it's an invitation, and you move to him. His lips are soft and warm, and you hesitantly place your hand on the side of his neck. You want to feel the pulse under your palm. He exhales into the kiss sharply, you think you have cold hands. You jerk it back, and he moans in the protest.

You move away from him and whisper, "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"And yet I might need to go to bathroom again," his eyes are laughing, and you chuckle hesitantly.

"Thank you." He is studying your nose. You immediately fight an urge to twitch it.

"For what?" He is whispering too now.

"For trying to cheer me up with a joke. For being patient." He leans in and gently kisses the tip of the nose. He forgot to ask for consent, but you think it's perhaps because you have moved to the next level of kisses this time. You probably should stop keeping track, but you're still counting them in your head and meticulously catalogue the moves. His tongue brushing your bottom lip is at this stage the definite chart leader.

"Wren," his voice is emotional, and you want to curl into him, "I am in love with you. I just want you to be comfortable and enjoy yourself," he tilts his head slightly, and you turn your head in response. You are hoping to feel his lips on your neck, and you have read his signals right. Since you are so tense all the time, any square centimeter of your body is an erogenous zone. You wonder whether you might combust when the two of you actually get to something that can be officially considered heavy petting. The thought is alarming, but it disappears quickly, he has just brushed his lips on your earlobe.

"Can we talk about it a bit?" Your voice is pleading, and you are panting.

"Of course," he brushes his nose to your neck and then moves away. He is smiling, but your "constant vigilance" can be a great tool if necessary. You've already learnt that strange tension in the corners of his lips. You bet that while one of his hands is gently holding yours, the other one is clenched in the first.

"John, the scariest thing for me is when I don't understand something… And I feel then like I don't have any control… And that's when I get frightened..." He is listening attentively, you are blushing. "I don't know anything about sex. I know factual data but it's different. And as soon as something changes, I feel threatened. You are very tense right now. Everything was fine, and then..." You point at his hand, you were right, even the knuckles are white. He looks at it and then hikes up his brows in surprise. You assume he wasn't aware he was doing it.

"Wren, it's nothing..."

"It's not nothing. I assure you, anything you might say would be better than what I assumed in my head."

"I thought we've already agreed you won't believe the first assumption in your head," he is referring to the earlier conversation in the kitchen. Men are funny. He thinks once you discussed it, it's done. Thea shared this wisdom with you last night. You chatted, actually chatted as proper friends in the kitchen over tea. She warned you they think in boxes. You need to speak their languages, use factual information, she said.

"John, I can't turn it off right away. It's part of my condition. I also don't have anything to base any other assumptions on."

"Then just ask," you think he looks irritated, but you reign your panic, and remind yourself that relationships are built. You can do it.

"I just did. And you said it was nothing." He closes the mouth he opened to contradict you and thinks back. Then he chuckles.

"You are right. I'm thick. And I'm sorry." He smiles to you. "I got tense because I get very randy when I kiss your neck." He is watching your reaction, he is worried he is pressuring you. You grin back.

"I like when you kiss my neck. And ear, I really like when you kiss my ear." It's hard to say, but it's easier with each step. "Can we do things and if it gets too much, you can always stop and tell me that's enough?" You ask, and he suddenly starts guffawing. This time he is the one who needs a few moments to calm down. he was right, it does look alarming. And a bit sexy, it's a low rumble in his chest and you can't stop staring at the little wrinkles in the corners of his squinted eyes.

"Firstly, that what they usually say to chicks," he is making a funny face and speaks in a fake sleazy tone, "We will stop, babe, just tell me when." You giggle, the tone doesn't suit him at all. You also like the idea of being a predator here. That's a sudden mind-blowing thought. You will return to it tonight. And then you remember you won't. You are staying at his place tonight. You remind yourself to breathe. "And secondly, Wren, let's get this straight. When we are making out and I jump up and run out to stick my head under cold water, you promise you won't think you are doing anything wrong?" You are staring at him. That's quite a colourful image.

"Will you run in the middle of..." You stumble over your words, "Making out and stick your head under cold water?"

"Most likely," you are thinking he is only partially joking.

"OK, what am I supposed to think instead?"

"That I'm so randy that I can hardly control myself around you?" You are studying his face.

"And are you?"

"Wren, I am having adolescent level obscene dreams every night and they involve every square inch of your body, so yes, I am." That's a bit too much, you need a break.

"Can we move it to the bedroom?" Your voice is small. He laughs.

"Again, Wren, with non intentional erotic statements? And yes, let's go watch the show."


	33. Chapter 33

You can't concentrate on the show. River Song has just gone down the sewerage with Rory, and John is chuckling at her musing regarding a locked door, and you are staring at his ear. The two of you are on his bed, over covers but under a nice Afghan quilt, a bowl of popcorn and another one with Seabrook's crisps near you. You are leaning on his shoulder and keep on thinking about what he said about every square inch of your body he apparently sees in his dreams. You don't like your body. You want to know what those dreams involve, but you don't know how to ask.

"Wren?" Apparently he has been looking at you for a while now. Your eyes are glassy, and you shake your head.

"Yes?"

"Is everything alright?" There is a crisp in his hand. You were staring at the ear before to avoid staring at his throat when he eats them with gusto.

"I am distracted, sorry." He shifts, presses pause on the laptop, and turns back to you. You can't summon what happens but you snatch the crisp and stuff it in your mouth. Maybe you are trying to find an excuse to not talk.

"That was mine," the pretense growl is very nice.

"Not anymore," you shouldn't talk with your mouth full.

"You are a crisp thief, Wren Leary." That's purring, that is a hundred percent purring. He sharply moves, his face very close to you, and you shrink away. Your eyes are probably huge, he immediately sobers up. You can see how playfulness disappears from his eyes, he thinks he frightened you, you don't want this. You wrap your arms around his neck, swallow the crip and kiss him.

You hope all the excitement, tenderness and joy you feel show in the kiss, because you surely don't know how to express it all in words. But you want him to know. His arms go around you, and you jerk, he is large and hot, but you hug his neck firmer, again to show him that he doesn't need to move away, you open your mouth first, let your tongue brush his lips, and he is breathing heavily. You push yourself harder, you tread your fingers in the hair, you mess his ponytail, the heavy silky waves run through your fingers, and he makes some small noise. You feel drunk, and you move closer to him. A bowl of popcorn rolls off the bed, white puffs scattering everywhere. You notice and moan into his mouth. He doesn't and deepens the kiss. And then suddenly moves away.

"Was that about popcorn or about going too far?"

"Popcorn," you giggle.

"Sod the popcorn," he catches your mouth again, and you laugh. You also notice he is not moving into you and especially not over you. You assume he would want to though. Because you certainly do.

"John?..." He immediately tears his lips from your neck he was kissing and looks at you. His hair is sticking out, and his cheekbones are blushed. He is gorgeous.

"I… Can I please?... Can we?…"

"Stop?"

"No," his assumption made it worse. Now you surely don't know how to ask.

"What is it, Wren?" Openness and trust building. These were the two goals Dr. Coutts set as your two main objectives in your relationships with him these days. You need to be open and learn to trust him. And he needs to know he can trust you and your judgement too.

"Can I move closer…?" You tell yourself you need to say it. "Can I move on you?" His eyebrows jerk up, and you gulp. Saying it in your head yesterday during the exposure session was 60/100 on anxiety scale. Him not answering you at the moment is pushing it up to 70/100. You clearly envision bolting to the entrance door.

"God please," he cups your face and looks you in the eyes. "Wren, I am in love with you. I need you to remember it, please, tell me you remember it." His tone is pleading and you don't understand where this is coming from. You nod though.

"I do."

"And I think you are very, very brave, and I am..." He is searching for a word, "Honoured." That statement distracts you from the thought of how scared you are to even imagine more bodily contact.

"Honoured?"

"Yes, that you are trying. With me… I know it's hard, and I probably wouldn't manage it..." You smile shakily. He leans in and places a very tender kiss on your lips. You grab the back of his head and pull him into a deeper one. And then you roll over him, pushing him on his back. You are squeezing your eyes from terror and embarrassment, but he continues kissing you and it's getting better. The icicle that you suddenly found instead of your spine is melting. You tear your mouth off his and take a deep breath in. And then you open your eyes. His blue one are very close, brilliant and happy, and you smile.

He is underneath you, a large strong body, he is completely still, but not rigid, except for one hand gently stroking your shoulder. He is scorching, through the sweater and the denim, and your stomach is pressed to his.

"Can I..?" You are not sure what you are asking about. He smiles, and one brow twitches. They are black and thick, and you want to touch it.

"Help yourself to anything you want." You giggle.

"Sounds like you are speaking about a buffet. Do you fancy yourself a dessert cart?" You are lifting one brow too, your voice is shaking, but he laughs at your joke.

"You are the one ogling me like a treacle tart." You sit up on him, and he gasps. You tell yourself you'll ignore his erection that you feel through denim, but you hardly can. On the other hand, you are given a chance to explore, and you can finally touch everything you've been only looking at for so long. He is still passive, only his hand twitching on the sheets. You lean in and run the pulp of your finger on his brow. It's silky, and you bite into your bottom lip.

"Do you mind if I close my eyes?" His voice is choked, and you jerk your hand back. "Wren, everything you do is amazing, but you are making these faces..." You gulp, you haven't realised you need to keep your face in check. Apparently, without knowing you are making faces that throw him off. If you managed to do something wrong at this stage, how are you supposed to go further in the whole intimacy thing? "You are just too sexy, I will need that cold water earlier." That's unexpected. You are staring at him. He sees your shock and sighs. "Do I need to explain it?"

"Yes!" You almost yell at him. You understand it's difficult for him too, but you need it.

"You bite your lip, it's very red, and I have a thing for your mouth. And your eyes are… it actually looks like you are looking at some pudding… And you are flushed. And I imagine how you'd look if we were…" He halts, and you blush harder. You so not there yet.

"You can close your eyes." He does and exhales through rounded lips. They are next on your list, and you brush your thumb to them. The contrast with masculine, black, seemingly harsh beard is amazing, the line of his mouth is soft, and the lips slightly open. You cup the jaw with your hand, whiskers scraping at the center of your palm, and you slide the splayed hand lower, on his neck. He is taking measured breaths in. Just a few hours ago you lamented that you can't touch him, and now you are straddling him. You feel amazing. Your fingers lightly dip in the hollow between his collarbones, and you run them along the neck of the sweater.

You are feeling dizzy, every little step ahead you make these days takes so much out of you, that you are exhausted. You have courage and fight in you for one more thing, and you lean in and press your lips to his neck. It's exhilarating, and you shudder. The fragrance of his cologne and skin, the pulse and the warmth of his skin, and most of all the gasp and the shudder you cause make you exhale loudly. You slide off him and curl into him. He gently wraps his arm around you, he is running his fingers through your hair, and you don't notice how you fall asleep.


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: So, I felt bad that I'm depriving you of reading and sort of pressure you into leaving reviews, so here are three chapters in a row *shyly shuffling a foot***

You wake up with a jerk in the middle of the night, pressing your hand over your mouth not to scream. It's your usual nightmare, but this one is dulled, you were almost aware it wasn't real. You open your eyes and stare at the man sleeping next to you. He left the nightlight on, probably for your sake, he is also lying at the other side of the bed, you remember the octopus treatment he had given you the first night. This time he placed three pillows between you two, fencing you from him. You are covered with the quilt, he has one hand under his cheek. It looks so innocent and child like that you let yourself gaze at him sappily for a while. His second hand is on the pillow barrier, fingers splayed, and you stretch your hand. You do not dare touch, but your eyes run from the long elegant fingers, to the black hair at the back of his hand, to the narrow masculine wrist. You want to brush your fingers on the round bone there.

You are asking yourself what exactly is appropriate to do and not to do in a situation like this. You are after all in relationships with him, you are allowed, and even somewhat encouraged to indulge. On the other hand, according to his clock, it's two in the morning, and he is sleeping. You sigh.

You quietly climb off the bed and tiptoe into the living room to pick up your beauty case. You are brushing your teeth and shortly wonder why you didn't take any PJs. You know the answer right away, because you didn't think you'd stay. You thought you'd chicken out and call a cab. You didn't expect to fall asleep in his arms after making out with him. You are suddenly hot under your collar, also not a figure of speech apparently, from the memories of his hot body under you.

"Wren?" His voice is raspy and panicked, and you quickly return to the bedroom. He is sitting on the bed, squinting and shielding his eyes from the light, his hair sticking out. He is so adorable that you feel like jumping at him. It's a strange idea, you couldn't bring yourself to touch his hand just a few minutes ago. But you suddenly graphically imagine pressing your hands to the black beard and maybe scratching it a bit like a cat. There is this low rumbling that sometimes rolls in his throat and chest when the two of you kiss. It is almost purring.

"I am here," you are still holding the toothbrush in your hand, your mouth full of foam.

"I woke up and you weren't here," his voice is grumpy, and he rubs his eyes. There is no other word but 'cute' for him right now.

"It is indeed what happened," you snigger. He groans and falls back on the bed theatrically.

"I'm too sleepy for your witty remarks, Wren," he peeks at you from under his long arm dramatically thrown over his eyes. "And please, go wash your face. The foam is doing it for me. I am so tempted to kiss you now, even though you look like a rabid squirrel." You laugh. You are still waiting for awkwardness to kick in, but you are suddenly comfortable. You come up to the bed and lean in. You peck his lips, and he moans into your lips. You straighten up, he slightly rises, as if he is pulled after you by some strings, and then he falls back. "Thank you, Wren, now I'll be sexually frustrated every time I am brushing my teeth. Men are like Pavlov's dog in terms of shag."

"That's why men have a type," you nod and push the brush into your mouth. He is watching you from under his arm. "What is yours? Redheads?"

"You are the first redhead I… dated."

"You don't date at all," you shake the brush in the air in a teachery manner.

"I can't say you are the first redhead I shagged, I haven't yet," he yawns tastily, and you are frozen with a brush between your teeth. He notices your face, "Oh, bugger, Wren, I am sorry..."

"Don't apologise," you interrupt, "You yourself said we shouldn't pussyfoot around each other. And it's nice to know you are planning to."

He is staring at you with disbelieving eyes. You grin, the brush still in your mouth. It's the middle of the night, you remind yourself, your inhibitions are lowered, you are less cautious. You shouldn't make any decisions at the moment. Everything is heightened, and you come up to him again, you press your knee into the bed, and kiss him again. He is rising on his arms, his lips are greedy, and your head is spinning. You throw the brush on the bedside table, and your hands lie on his shoulders. You are in an awkward semi-reclined position but even in the drunk state you are in, you couldn't straddle him again.

His arms give in under him. You fall with him and end up splayed on him. You both freeze, and he whispers, "That wasn't intentional, I swear..."

You lift your face, his eyes are right in front of you, and you start cowardly sliding off him. At some point your knee brushes his quite obvious erection, and he groans. You flee to the bathroom and splash cold water on your face. You give both of you several minutes to straighten your thoughts, and you come back. He is not in the bed, he is rummaging in one of the drawers in his wardrobe. He pulls out what you know is a galabeya, a floor length robe worn by men in Egypt. It is in rich burgundy colour with elegant embroidery around the keyhole neck.

"You might be lost in it, but it'll be much more comfortable than sleeping in jeans. It's clean, I never even wore it." You are looking at it. It's so beautiful that you have no words. It's also his size, you can wrap in it twice length and width wise.

"Thank you," you breathe out and press into him. You nuzzle his chest, and he is standing frozen, galabeya in his hand. Your arms go around his waist, you breathe in his smell and rub your cheek to him. It is so much easier when it's just you and him, in the middle of the night, and he is so obviously taking care of you.

"You can take it home, or keep it here. For the next time," his voice is soft, and you want to promise him that soon you won't need any clothes in his flat. And it's not about giving him what he wants, you want him. With each excruciating step ahead you can see it more and more clearly every day. You want him.

"I think we can get rid of the pillows," you murmur and stroke his back. There are taut muscles along his spine, and you finally understand what arousal feels like.


	35. Chapter 35

He changes in the bathroom, into checked PJ bottoms and an old worn out tee that says _Talk nerdy to me, khaf-spol t'nash-veh_ and has an outline of Spock on it. You giggle from under his duvet. While he was brushing teeth, you moved the pillows off the bed and slid under the blankets. You don't want to question it. He is standing near the bed, his hands in the bottoms pockets. You love this habit of his.

"John, I want to try," only your eyes are peeking from under the duvet, "I think I am worried more than you."

"I am not worried," he is studying you, "You are on my side of the bed." You consider sticking your tongue at him. He is so obviously nervous that even his joke sounds jittery.

You move to the other side, and he carefully lies down. The two of you are on your sides, facing each other. The night light is dim, there are shadows on his face, and you want to talk some more. You should let him go though, you are imposing enough. He smiles to you softly.

"It's Saturday tomorrow, we can stay up for a bit more if you want. What do you want to do?" You are getting warmer, his duvet is amazing. He is not touching you, but you can feel the heat from his body creeping at you under the sheets.

"Does it say, _Talk nerdy to me, my heart, _in Vulcan on your shirt?" You ask, and his jaw literally slacks. He is staring at you, and you lift your brows questioningly. There is a _The Wrath of Khan _poster on your bedroom wall, you don't understand why he is surprised.

"Blimey, Wren..."

"I'm worried I'll wake up screaming and will try to claw your eyes out," you blurt out while he is still not over your proficiency in Vulcan. "With swimming the nightmares are much milder, but I had a long day today… So I'm anxious..."

"Wren, we all have nightmares. I was in a car accident in Egypt two years ago, a bird hit our radiator, and we swirled off the road. Flipped over the roof. My cameraman spent five months in a hospital. I still see it in my dreams." His tone is soft, and he moves his hand to you on the pillow palm up. You slowly cover it with yours. "I might be snoring, you might be kicking. Sleeping with a new person is always a bit tricky, but we'll learn." You exhale.

"Have you slept with a lot of new people?" You realise how it sounds right after you say it.

"A fair amount, but, Wren, you are… different." The word is uncomfortable, but you ground yourself, you have to give him benefit of the doubt and let him elaborate. "I _want _to sleep with you. I mean, as opposed to being in a bed with someone for some random reason."

"What are random reasons to sleep in the same bed with a person?" You are sincerely interested, but he blushes. It is funny. Since you are usually the one with red cheeks, you are observing the feverish spots appear on his cheekbones with keen interest.

"Well, if you slept together… And then you..." He is cornering himself in a verbal trap.

"And then you sleep together?" You didn't know you could sound that sarcastic. It's fun.

He groans and rolls on his stomach. He buries his face in between two of his numerous pillows. "Stop torturing me," his voice is muffled. You giggle.

"I am not."

"You so are," he is still not resurfacing. You stretch your hand and brush your fingers on the dark waves of his hair behind his ear. "Can I have some more of that, please?" He speaks in a funny voice, as if asking for another scoop of ice cream, and you move a bit closer and run your fingers through his hair. You recognise the smell from it, it's Yves Rocher Green Tea shampoo. Thea once got it as a gift and said it was "too flirty" to her taste. His hair smells "too flirty". You pull your hand back, letting the curls run through your fingers, and then you twist a strand around your finger. He peeks with one eye from between pillows.

"Can I kiss you, Wren?" You move even closer and kiss the corner of his lips, his face half turned to you. And then you surprise yourself, you brush your lips along the beard, and then place another kiss on his ear.

"Can I ask you something?" You whisper in his ear, and you feel a shudder run through his body, one of your hands is on his shoulder blade.

"God, Wren, I bet it's something mundane, but everything sounds like dirty talk to me right now..." He moves from under your hand, he actually moves away from you, and you feel panicked. You overstepped some boundaries, made some faux pas in being in the same bed with a bloke. Your hands clench in fists, and it's hard to breathe. He rolled on his back and is rubbing his face with his palms. "So, what is it you wanted to ask?" You are shaking. He finally looks at you. "Wren?"

"I don't remember..." You don't. You are slightly disoriented, and you can't seem to return to the baseline. You don't understand why you are so suddenly affected. You feel like crying. You tell yourself you are just tired, but tears spill. He sits up straighter and stretches his hand to you. "Wren?" His voice is worried, and you sob.

"I don't remember what I was going to ask. I am sorry..."

"Wren, it's nothing. Are you alright?" He always asks for your consent, so he doesn't touch you, but you suddenly just want to be hugged. You move into him, and he embraces you. You both are sitting on the bed, and your hands meet at his back. You start crying harder, and he is sitting, gently rubbing your back.

"I don't understand..." You mumble between sobs. "Why are you so patient? It must be horrible… To be with me..." You cry louder, something has snapped in you, "You have to watch every step, you can't touch me… I can't sleep with you… And when it happens it'll be horrible..." Here it is. Here is the problem.

"Wren..."

"I'll get scared… It'll hurt… And you will feel horrible…" You are starting to take panicked short breaths, and everything blurs in front of your eyes. You two were having fun, and you ruined it now. It makes you cry harder.

"Wren, oh my girl, no, of course not..." He is stroking your hair, and you are sagging in his arms, "Goodness, Wren, it's not a competitive sport, darling, my love, please... Don't cry..." He is pressing you into him. You feel suddenly fragile, like a glass vase, it's one of your symptoms, it's that strange anxiety when you are reminded of how physically weak you are. You claw at his shoulders. You are so scared to ruin what is happening between you two that you sometimes feel like it hurts even to think about it. "Wren, it will be… us. Just us… Like you kiss me, some day you'll feel like more, and it will be great… And if you don't, it's still fine..."

"How is it fine?!" You push away from him and press your hands over your mouth. An absurd thought comes that you seem to see tears in his eyes too.

"Wren, I love you. You, when you are free, and happy, the snarky you, the crying you, any you, if sex isn't for you, I can live with that. I just want you to be happy… Wren, please..." He cups your face and wipes your tears with his thumbs, "Please don't cry, not because of me, please..."


	36. Chapter 36

"I want to be better, I want to be normal..." Tears run down your face, and he is wiping them, "I want to be light… Like you, like Thea, I want to go shopping, and go to a pub with you… I want to have sex… I don't want this suffocating… this painful fear… You will lie on me, and I will start screaming..."

"Oh Wren..." He pulls you into him again, "Wren, you will do what you want. Every moment we will only do what you want. I'm sure you can talk to your therapist about it, make a plan, there must be a comfortable way of doing it."

You are calming down, you are drowsy and numb. Everything suddenly seems so hopeless. "Why would you even try?" Your voice is hollow.

"Because each step is still ace?" He moves away and holds you by your shoulders on his straight arms. He is studying your face. You have no energy to hide how much pain you are in. "Oh Wren… OK, listen… I had women before, OK? Sometimes it was better, sometimes worse, sometimes it was even a bit fun. But it's not the same with you. Everything is… special with you. Wren, look at me…" Your head feels heavy but you make yourself look in his eyes. "Wren, you kiss me, and it's better than sex. Everything with you is... amplified." His eyes are sincere and serious, and you take an easier breath in. "This..." He brushes his fingertips along your jaw, "This is amazing. Touching you, kissing you, being with you… It just makes sense, OK?"

You blink and stare at him. Because it exactly doesn't to you. Him staying around doesn't make sense. You are broken, useless, you just threw a tantrum in front of him. He was in bed with you, probably uncomfortable since you were touching him but there was no chance for anything else. He must think you are the worst tease. You remember the girl in your school who once told you that hard-to-get's always got hurt eventually. Might as well give them what they want right away, she'd say. They will take it anyroad. You ask yourself, if that's what you are doing in here. Pushing him until he snaps, either leaves or forces himself on you. People with your trauma tend to enter abusive relationships.

But not John. John will never hurt you. He also promised not to leave. You suddenly realise where you are. You are in his flat, on his bed, the two of you were cuddling under his duvet, you are wearing a galabeya he gave you. You are in your boyfriend's flat. And it's John.

"Are you my boyfriend?" He strokes your cheeks and quickly kisses your lips. There is a small relieved smile on his lips. You guess your eyes look saner now.

"Yes, I am. I'm your boyfriend. We are dating. And I feel ace about it." You breathe out a shuddered breath. "And you just creeped me out because it sounded like 'Are you my mummy?'" There are little crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

"How do you do it? Go back to normal after I behave like a psycho? How do you ignore it so easily?" You need to know.

"You are not a psycho, Wren. And I don't," his voice is still soft, and he leans back on the headboard. He is not pulling you after him, but you settle in his arms. His hot body under you, his heart beating under your hand, you press your face to his neck. "I get very upset, and I think about it later, but you need me to be calm now, and I can do it. I can do it for you." You stroke his chest, feeling his chest hair under the soft fabric of the tee.

"Thank you, I wish I could tell you to be more open with me, but you are right, I wouldn't cope."

"I'm open with you," he shifts and presses his lips to your temple, "I just don't let my temper rise. But I am open with you. I've never been more honest and eloquent with a woman before." He suddenly chuckles softly, "It's almost liberating that I actually have to say things. It's nice, I like it." He presses his lips to your hair again, and you sigh.

"I am sorry for crying..."

"Don't be," he covers your hand on his chest and rubs the back of it with his thumb, "It let you say what you were worried about. I'm glad we talked about it."

"We will have to talk a lot about it." You sigh again. "On every step, ad nauseam, until you don't want to even think about making out with me." You are trying to joke, but it is a real concern.

"Don't count on that," he chuckles, but he sounds sleepy. It took a lot out of him too, you suddenly understand. You curl into him, your eyes are closing.

"I like making out with you..." You sound sleepy, and he hums in agreement. "I love your lips..." Everything swims in some sort of fog, and you fall asleep.

In the morning you do not wake up with a scream. You are blissfully comfortable and warm, you open your eyes and stare at him. He is wrapped around you, like the aforementioned bloody octopus. Your legs are pressed to bed with his long and heavy limb, one arm is possessively around your shoulder, and he is slightly snoring. So he does snore. You find it endearing.

Everything seems so much easier in the morning. You have just spent a night in your boyfriend's flat, it's Saturday, and he told you he would like to spend the morning with you. He had plans for the evening, and you are going for a walk with Thea. You will spend the morning with your boyfriend. You two will go to the small cafe in the next street, you'll have breakfast, read the newspaper together and laugh about something unimportant. You will tell him about work, he will tell you something about Egypt, or Brazil, or Cardiff where he has a cousin with a beautiful name Dain.

You wonder if you are supposed to brush teeth or you can actually just kiss him, when he makes a funny snorting sound, his breathing changes, and he wraps his arm around you tighter and pulls you into him. Your body instinctively goes rigid, but you relax quickly. You slightly shift, to find a more comfortable position. He is warm, and you rub your nose to his jaw. The beard is scraping your skin, the cocoon of blankets you two are in is full of the fresh smell of his skin and the Green Tea shampoo, and he mumbles something and started nuzzling you in his sleep.

"I love you," you whisper into his sleeping face. He doesn't wake up, but you don't need him to. You bite into your bottom lip. Your eyes sting but these are good tears. You don't cry at the end, you breathe out and smile to the man sleeping near you.

You brush your palm on his beard, and he mutters, "I still have time..." And then his eyes open, and he smiles to you sleepily. You decide you don't care about brushing teeth and catch his mouth. He seems to agree with your regarding the question of oral hygiene, because he moans into your mouth, sounding endlessly chuffed. You roll on top of him, and his hands lie on your back.

"God I love your shoulder blades," he is purring and kissing your jaw.

"You are mad," you are flirting, and you don't care.

"They are rad. So graceful. All of you is graceful. And sexy. Bloody hell, you are sexy." You laugh. Just because you just said you loved him and because life is brill. "And cool. And so so sexy. Have I mentioned sexy?" You are laughing harder. "God I don't know if it's your swimming or you are just naturally so..."

"Yes?" You are milking him for compliments. You press your lips to his neck, and he emits the already familiar gasp. You place three more small kisses on the lower edge of his beard on his neck, and he groans.

"Wren, I will need that cold water now." You lift your face. There is tension in his features though, and you slightly move away. He exhales loudly. "Breakfast?" His voice is still raspy, but you've talked about it. You know he is not upset with you. You now understand what's going on, and you can cope with that.

"Breakfast sounds great."


	37. Chapter 37

Five days later you slip going down the ladder into the pool and bump your chin to a step. You are distracted. You have a big day today. You and John are going to a pub tonight, to meet couple of his mates, and last night you ended up crying in the bathroom out of sheer exhaustion from the exposure session.

The people in the pub will be the first people you are going to be introduced to in three years. The last time you met someone new was when they hired you in your designer firm. You met some of them through Skype, you exchanged emails, and then you stopped by at the studio for twenty minutes. Most of them are socially awkward, nerdy people who are constantly on Tumblr, and all blokes have beards there and do not look good with them. You fit right in. John's people are regular men and women. You are so anxious that you don't control your extremities.

You yelp and let go of the rail. You slide into water and thrash. The next thing is Auggie pulling you out of water. When you feel him touch you, you scream and your mouth fills with water. It pours into your body, it hurts, and he pulls you on the edge of the pool. You are coughing, and he steps back.

"Wren! Wren! Are you OK? Can I touch you? Let the water out, Wren!" His voice is concerned, and you realise he asked for your consent.

You lift your burning eyes at him. He is kneeling in front of you, his hand stretched to you, but frozen a few inches from your shoulder.

"What?.. Why?.."

"Wren, if you are feeling anxious, it's normal. People often experience shock when they get dunked like that. You said you don't like to be touched, are you OK with it now?"

You nod, you are relieved, he doesn't know. You tell yourself you are not the psycho you were before. Auggie picks up your chin and leans close. You jerk away, but he is just studying your eyes.

"How hard did you hit? Are you dizzy? Is your vision blurred?"

"No, no, I'm fine," you were on all four, you roll on your bum and rub your chin. There is no blood, but it hurts. "I didn't hit that much, and didn't swallow much water." He is still studying your pupils. It's very medical, impersonal, and you calm down. "I am sorry, I was distracted." He is frowning. That's the first time you see him without a smile.

"Wren, what's the rule number one?"

"Water is the center of my attention," you obediently repeat.

"Exactly. I still want to take you to nurse. Can you get up?"

"I'm fine," you rush to reassure him and get up too quickly. You sway, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You remember how couple days ago you were watching "Notebook" with Thea, mostly because she likes making sarcastic jokes every second minute of the film, and you shortly wondered what it would feel like to be hugged by someone besides John, to be precise you wondered if it'd be pleasant. It's not. You don't feel like pushing him away, it doesn't make you freak out, it's still unnerving though, but you are managing. It just doesn't feel like much.

The nurse obviously says you are fine, and you go change. There is a purple bruise blooming on your chin. You feel like a plonker. This is how John's friends will see you for the first time. You come out of the changing room and stop in the hall. John was supposed to pick you up after the pool, and now you have half an hour with nothing to do. You hate it. You were pins and needles already, the pub visit looming over you, now you have half an hour of being alone with your thoughts. Never a good idea with you.

"Wren?" Auggie shows up from around a corner, carrying two bottles of water and a tupperware of some snacks. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," you wonder how many time you have said that since you banged your head to the ladder like a berk.

"Do you want me to call you a cab?"

"I'm being picked up," you look at your mobile, "In half an hour." He nods and pushes the tupperware towards you.

"Sesame squares?" You stare at them. You eat more these days, you go out with John, you have the reminder on your phone. But still, it's a big deal for you. Only, Auggie doesn't know. You pick up a piece and stuff it in your mouth. It's very good, sesame seeds, coconut, some other grains, very healthy and vegan. Auggie is vegan, he told you about it during the first class. He talks a lot, you know a fair amount of information about him.

He sits on a bench and pats it signalling you to join him. You sit, you feel uncomfortable. He probably has a class, he probably feels guilty since you hurt yourself on his watch.

"It wasn't your fault," you blurt out. He looks at you, chewing his sesame square, and then he pushes a water bottle into your hand.

"It wasn't," he smiles and bumps his bottle into yours, "It was yours. It doesn't mean I can't worry about you." His grin is sunny, and you return it. "Does it hurt?" He points at your chin with his eyes.

"No, it's fine." He chuckles.

"Uh-huh, and you are fine, and your chin is fine, and you are not shaking." You look at the bottle in your hand. You are.

"It's not about the fall. I'm nervous… about an important appointment tonight." That's a good way of putting it. You don't want to elaborate. You'll start hyperventilating and will go into a panic attack.

"Oh yeah?" He is studying your face and then pushes the tupperware to you again. You obediently take another piece. Dr. Coutts has warned you, the more you socialize, the more careful you have to be. You have an ingrained desire to please, it's part of your trauma, you need to learn to be assertive and only do what you want. You ask yourself and understand you do want another of his squares. They are nice, there is masala in them.

"Family meeting?" You stare at him. He takes a sip of water. It turns out all men are mesmerizing when their throat moves this way. Although you can't really tell, he is the second one you pay attention to while they eat. "I pretty much have the same face when I meet my relatives."

"Why?" You don't know if you are leading the conversation right. In your handbag you have a list of social cues and appropriate behaviours you made with Dr. Coutts, but you obviously can't pull it out in front of him right now. You were planning to consult it when you'd excuse yourself to a loo in the pub.

"Most of my father's family is from Texas," he is smiling widely. "Me being a vegan and an anti guns activist, as you can imagine, is not their cup of tea." It's such a British expression.

"You don't sound Texan."

"I grew up in Hull," he makes big eyes, and you giggle. You remember Dara O'Briain's joke about Hull. Apparently Auggie shares his opinion.

"It's a lovely city!" You feign indignation. "The Tidal Barrier is brill, and the Holy Trinity Church is gorgeous! And the Deep is just a marvel!" He chokes on his water.

"Are you from Hull?!"

"No," you laugh. Apparently talking to people isn't that hard. _Don't intimidate people with your IQ and photographic memory, _Dr. Coutts joked, and you remember a few points from the list. "I watched a special on BBC." He is laughing and shaking his head.

"Wren, I probably know less about it than you, way to make me feel like a plonker," his joke is light, and you are carefully screening his and your interaction. It seems to be going fine. Maybe tonight won't be a disaster. "Where did you grow up?" He leans back on the wall chewing the snack.

You take one without him pushing you. That's what people do, that's a social behaviour that is normal. He offered before, the container is between the two of you.

"I'm local." You are tense right away. People who know you don't ask questions about your childhood. Auggie only sees you for an hour five days a week. He talks, you breathe and swim. He doesn't know anything. He hums to show he is listening. He has shared information about his family, Dr. Coutts would remind you, it's a common practice to share some in return. Except you can't tell anything. "But most of my relatives are Irish. See?" You pull at a curl, and he chuckles.

"Like a carrot, it's rad. Super fit." It's such a nonchalant compliment that you freeze with the strand still in your hand.

"Wren?" John's voice makes you turn sharply, and you smile widely. Except he doesn't. He is frowning, his hands deep in the denim pockets, which means he is emotionally uncomfortable. You immediately go rigid. You are so attuned to him that you pick up the smallest cues. Right now you don't recognise the emotions in him, it's something new.


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N: Hahaha, ****UKReader****, are there hot tall Auggie's in Hull? Probably not, people would never leave it then :) To be honest the only reason I chose it is because it's mentioned in "Blink" episode of **_**Doctor Who**_** :)**

**A/N#2: Thank you EVERYONE for reading and reviewing, and, ****Redhouseclan****, welcome to our mad company :)**

**I LOVE YOU ALL ARDENTLY! :)**

"John, this is Auggie Anderson, my swimming instructor," Auggie gets up and stretches his hand. "That's John, my boyfriend." It takes a lot of effort not to repeat it couple more times, you really like how it sounds. The men shake hands.

"Nice to meet you, John. See you tomorrow, Wren. Good luck tonight!"

Auggie picks up his container, salutes you with his bottle, and leaves. You smile to him and turn to John. You are very happy to see him. You are always happy to see him. Except at the moment something is wrong.

"God, Wren, what happened?" He finally notices the bruise. You blush furiously, you feel so stupid. He is taking you to meet his friends, and you managed to decorate your face with a purple bruise.

"I slipped in the pool. I am sorry," he stretches his hand to you, and you step closer, pressing your cheek to it. He tilts your head and looks at your chin. "I've seen the nurse, it's just a bruise."

He lowers his hand. He still hasn't kissed you. The last few times he always leaned in to kiss you when you'd meet. You'd have to meet him halfway, but he'd go for it first. The problem is that's how your brain works, you notice every little detail, every little change.

"Why didn't you call me?" He sounds angry. He is angry. You finally recognise the emotion, and you shrink away. You don't understand what you did wrong.

"You were coming in half an hour..." Your voice starts shaking. "And it's just a bruise. Auggie helped me..."

"God, Wren…" He sneers through his teeth and sharply turns away from you, with his whole body, and you are staring at his back. "I know you probably don't understand, but that's not how it works..."

"Swimming?" You notice your breathing is quickening, panic is rising. You arsed up, you understand as much, your mind is grasping for all possible explanations where your fault is, but you are more and more confused.

"Dating, Wren, that's not how dating works." You bite into your bottom lip. He turns back to you. "Wren, you didn't do anything wrong, you just don't see it..."

"What? What don't I see?" You pleadingly stretch your hands to him, but he doesn't take them. With each second it's harder to breathe, and buzzing starts in your ears. He studies you for a second and then pulls you into him. Your senses are assaulted by his heat and the fragrance, and you jerk. He didn't ask, he could have frightened you. You press into him harder, you don't understand.

"It's nothing, forget it. I just… just got scared that you are hurt..." He is tenderly stroking your back. He is also lying. You are absolutely certain at this moment he is not telling you the truth and he is still angry. You feel nausea rising, you feel the bitter taste in your mouth. You start shaking harder. You can't fight the dissociation, your mind shuts off, the reality is too much, and you close your eyes. "Honestly, let's just forget it and go."

He lets you go, picks up your hand like he always does these days, he used to ask and then you told him he could any time he wanted, and he is leading you out of the pool. You are feeling numb. You stumble over a step, and he instinctively supports you. And that's when he sees your face.

"Fuck, Wren, you..." He chokes on his words and then leans to you. He cups your face, lifts it and makes you look in his eyes. "Wren, talk to me. Wren, you are white, and your lip is bleeding. You bit it, Wren!" His voice is panicked, and you release the lip you weren't aware you were biting. You wipe it, and there is a red stain on your palm. "God, Wren, I am so sorry… It's all my fault..." He puts his hands on your shoulders. You want to ask what you did wrong, why everything suddenly broke, but you are feeling too dizzy. Pain slashes across your stomach, and you fold in two.

He picks you up on his arms and carries you on the nearest bench. He sits and puts you on his lap. He is rubbing your shoulders, your teeth are chattering, and you bury your face in his neck.

"Wren, I am so sorry, love… It's all my fault, I got jealous like a prick, instead of talking… Wren, please… Talk to me..."

His warm palms on your skin, his body close to you, and the sincere tone of his voice make the haze retreat a bit, and his words reach your brain.

"You were jealous?" He is rubbing your hands, you understand he doesn't want to look into your eyes, but then he makes himself. His are pained and remorseful.

"I'm sorry, Wren, I am... I was a tosser, I'm so..."

"You were jealous?" He nods heavily.

"I have the temper, remember? Jealousy is one of the issues… It just bloody turns off my brain." You are confused.

"Jealous of whom? I mean, what did I do?" He pulls you into him tighter. His voice is choked.

"God, Wren, I am such a fucker. You don't even understand… Your swimming instructor, he was chatting you up, and you got hurt, and he was helping you, and I wasn't there, and you didn't call… I should have known none of this makes sense to you..." You stir out of your stupour and move away from him, as much it is as possible considering he is wrapped around you.

"You were jealous of Auggie?" It just doesn't compile in your head.

"I'm sorry... I should have known, that was wrong, especially with you… Giving you the cold shoulder..." He presses his face to your neck. "I am sorry."

You think back at what he said. He wanted you to call him when you got hurt. He saw you with Auggie and got jealous. He was jealous. Of Auggie. You rub your face with your hands, accidentally brush the bitten lip and hiss. He is not moving, eyebrows drawn together, lips set in a hard line.

"I don't understand anything..." You sound lost, and your eyes meet. "I didn't know I was supposed to ring you."

"You weren't, I am just a jealous wanker. You should do what feels best."

"I haven't even thought of it. I was just waiting for you. And Auggie kept me company, I guess… We talked about Hull..." John looks even more pained, and he even closes his eyes.

"Wren, I don't think I can feel any worse right now, but please don't tell me more. I know I have nothing to blame you for. Of course you didn't see it, I just forgot it when I saw you two together..."

"What is it that I don't see?"

"That he was hitting on you."

"What?!" You can't believe it. That doesn't make any sense.

"Wren, we've already established that you don't see how fit you are, but I bet after several hours of watching you in a swimsuit the boy is in shreds." John's tone is grim.

"You _are_ jealous!" It's like you just understood it.

"Damn right I am," he raises his voice and then shrinks back. "Sorry, I'm sorry..." You are processing it. It sort of expands the idea of you being not that bad. If before it was just his personal glitch in choosing a girlfriend, now it looks like he is saying that others might also have the same glitch. It's not an unpleasant thought. You need more time with it.

"I want to go home," you mumble absent-mindedly, and he nods sadly. He looks very guilty, you are drowsy after your outburst, he promises to apologise to his friends, he lets you out of the car, you quickly peck his lips, hiss from your hurt one, and go up to your flat. You fall in your bed and fall asleep right away.


	39. Chapter 39

Three hours later you drag yourself out of bed and plod into the kitchen. Thea is sitting at the table, a book open in front of her, her face dark. Today seems to be one of those days when everything goes wrong. Just like John before, she has a facial expression you can't understand.

"Hey," you try to avoid her serious eyes and start the kettle.

"Wren, can you please sit down? I need to talk to you." You tense but sit. Recently the two of you started properly talking, and you realised though you were friends for very long, you knew little about each other. Luckily whatever you now discover only confirms that you are good friends for each other.

She is twirling a bookmark in her fingers, un uncharacteristic fidgety moment, and you want to ask her to stop. She is making your anxious.

"Wren, is everything OK? I mean, between you and Thorington..." She trails off but then pushes herself look you in the eyes and asks decisively, "Is he treating you well?"

"Yeah," you answer without thinking, "What are you about, Thea?'

"You two were supposed to go to a pub today, and you are home. With a bruise on your jaw, Wren."

"I slipped and fell!" You cover your chin with your hand. And then you understand how it sounds. "Thea… God honest, I slipped in the pool and hit my chin to a step on the ladder. My instructor had to pull me out. And I freaked out so I decided I wanted to go home instead of the pub. We will go next week." She is studying you. She raises a legitimate concern though. Victims of childhood abuse tend to seek abusive relationships later in life. People enter relationships with the familiar roles and patterns. That's why you need to make sure you are not choosing an abusive dominant partner. But Thea can't be further from the truth with John. You think of him and smile. Whatever she sees in your face makes her breathe out and relax.

"Fuck it, Wren, I got so nervous! You dragged your adorable bum by me and hid in your room for a few hours, a bruise on your face and giant eyes. I was torn between breaking into your room to demand answers and unleashing my bat on poor Thorington." You giggle. Thea is tall, only a head shorter than John, and she is very good with cricket bat. She is a force to be reckoned with.

She gets up and starts making tea for both of you. You suddenly realise that you have a girlfriend to talk to.

"Funny thing happened actually..." You chew on your bottom lip and jerk since it hurts. Thea hums and puts your mugs in front of you. You pretend to be very busy with stirring honey into it and mumble, "John got jealous of me. Of Auggie."

"Huh?"

"Auggie, my swimming instructor. He is sort of… fit."

"How fit?" Thea looks immediately interested, you blush.

"Is there a measuring tool for it?" You hide behind your sarcasm. Auggie is indeed very attractive. He looks definitely septic, all healthy and white toothed, but you understand that he is probably very popular. You can't judge, you've just never really looked at men.

"Goodness, Wren, of course there is a whole scale. It might be too advanced for you though, but seriously, you pulled a big fish, your opinion counts. Describe your Auggie to me." You do, you mumble and suffer through it. Thea's eyes are brilliant.

"Oh sod it, a Texan from Hull, and a swimmer. They have the best bodies!" She rubs her hands, clicks her tongue and pops a heaping spoon of strawberry jam into her mouth. You are thinking industriously. For the first time you try to approach the question of male body from the same angle as Thea. As a set of measurements. You have to disagree with her. John's heavier wider build seems much more attractive to you.

"So we were sitting and talking, and John came up. He was… irritated afterwards," you omit the actual details. That you went into a psychotic numb episode because you got scared that you upset your boyfriend, dissociated from reality, and haven't noticed that you bit through your lip. You need to understand what exactly happened, and you suspect that Thea wouldn't be able to concentrate on what you need if she knew how affected you were.

"Men are such pigs!" She shakes her head and takes another spoonful of jam. Her comment doesn't make any sense to you. You were trying to understand how he could actually be jealous, and whether you did anything wrong, and how exactly you were supposed to behave. You didn't expect her to place any blame on John.

"Thea..." You sound pleading, and she smiles to you encouragingly. You exhale, you trust Thea. "No one has ever been jealous of me, I don't know what to think of it. Can you please help me?" It is a big step for you. Not only you are confiding in a person, you are also asking for someone else's opinion, who isn't your clinician, and you are surprised yourself but you seem to keep in mind that Thea's opinion will be personal and not the absolute truth. You are almost enjoying it, chatting with a girlfriend.

"Well, Wrennie, I am no psychologist, but the bloke was way out of line. Who does he think he is? A sultan? You are not his property, it's not like you were copping off with Mr. Hot Texan from Hull. By the way, take his photo, I need to see." You ignore her comment for now, still pondering her first statement.

It didn't even come to your mind, but once she said it, it makes sense. He got angry because you didn't run to him once you hurt yourself. You didn't need anyone to take care of you, you can do it yourself, and have been for years. As for Auggie's alleged hitting on you, even if he did, wouldn't it be your problem? You are indeed not the property of John Crispin Thorington. Thea is watching your mental process that is probably reflected on your face. There is still one question to ask.

"Thea, am I actually somewhat fit?" She is staring at you for a couple moments, and then starts laughing loudly. That doesn't sound very promising.

"Oh Wren, fuck me, you are a gem!" She grabs your hand from the table and shakes it in a funny gesture, "Yes, you clueless bird, you are pretty fit. I mean you are not Angelina Jolie whom everyone older than twelve wants to knob, you are not everyone's cup of tea, but you are fit! All small and nymph like. And darling, you have glorious tits."

"You have glorious tits!" You blurt out, and she laughs louder. "No, no, Thea," you pull your hand out of hers, "These are glorious tits!" You point at her beautiful breasts, currently peeking from under a silk peignoir, "I am skinny, pale and odd."

"Darling, thank goodness we don't live in fifties when there was one standard of beauty. These days, a chick of any size and shape can find a reasonable bloke for nice boffing. And birdie, you are a totty!" Your mouth might be half open from shock. "Doesn't your chauvinistic pig of a boyfriend tell you that?"

"He does, but I mean there is obviously something wrong with his judgement…"

"There is something wrong with _your _judgment, Wrennie." Thea is blunt. Somehow that's exactly what you need at the moment. "He is fit, like mindblowingly sexy, has a good career, and my sexdar tells me there is a lot going on down there." You think of the feeling on his length pressed to your thigh through denim. There is a lot going on down there. "Even if we are talking about pure shag, he could get anybody. He chose you. And he is head over heels with you. Jimmy told me they caught him doodling you at work." You spit your tea at the table. Thea is enjoying the effect.

"What?!"

"Yep. They've been taking a proper piss out of him for that since then. He was drawing cartoonish girly faces with freckles. The boy will never live this down," she shakes her head with fake mournfulness.

"He said I'm graceful, and fluid like water, and he said he has adolescent dreams about every inch of my body." Once you started talking, you can't stop. Thea is nodding approvingly.

"Yeah, he knows what he is doing."

"I think he was sincere," you pronounce in a shocked voice, and you can't believe it, but you might actually think so. Thea smiles widely and genuinely.

"I bet he did. The bloke is in love. But still a macho pig."


	40. Chapter 40

John texts you later the same evening and asks how your chin is. You let him know it doesn't hurt much and say you are over the dunking into the pool. And then he asks whether you are over him behaving like a prick. You are staring at your mobile.

You are sitting on your bed, your legs crossed, earphones on, and you are having a revelation, a series of them to be precise. Revelation number one is that he is feeling guilty about what happened, while you seem to have forgotten he even was there. All you are thinking about is how you should have behaved, whether your talk with Auggie was in any way inappropriate, and whether you should have hidden your distress better. Revelation number two is that it's not how relationships work, he was right. One of the consequences of the trauma like yours is that a person isolates themselves from the world and becomes fully concentrated on themselves. You can't do that anymore, you have John now.

You haven't even thought that he might be still worried about you. Thea said the bruise looks horrible, you did ask her to be direct. You have pale skin, bruising easily. You probably already looked awful when he was driving you home. You haven't thought of reassuring him on it.

When he said he was jealous, you thought he couldn't be, because no one would be interested in you. Apparently somewhere deep inside you still doubt he is. He blamed himself for upsetting you, but he was wrong. The episode you had was mostly caused by your inability to process normal everyday circumstances. Were you healthy, it would have gone completely different.

On one hand, Thea is right. Jealousy is disrespectful. You are not his property, and you didn't do anything deceitful. On the other hand, all John did was being slightly less affectionate towards you. And perhaps it wasn't just pure jealousy that made him such.

And then you do something you never thought you'd be able or willing to attempt. You try imagining yourself in his shoes. It is a strange and liberating feeling, to accept a different person's point of view, to try to see it through their eyes, to think of someone besides yourself.

Were you to see him amiably chatting with a fit brunette in shorts and a tight tee, would you feel jealous? Of course you would. Especially if John were you in this situation, seeing him talking to someone so freely would be shocking. When you two met you'd jump up when he'd address you, and now he sees you with a tall bloke laughing and seemingly flipping your hair.

He was also worried, something you surprisingly forgot, after he saw the bruise, he was affected by it. That's a lot of different emotions to process at the same time. As grounded and balanced as he is, he is after all receptive when it comes to your states.

You also know that you are not supposed to feel flattered, but you are. You fundamentally lack the sense of self worth, and you are working on it with Dr. Coutts these days. Him being jealous of you is not the best of compliments, but it works. You have processed it, you are not planning on building anything on it, but many women feel a small triumph when it happens. You might as well accept that you might be one of them.

You send him a text back saying that although he was being a chauvinistic pig, you put a smiley after it, he shouldn't blame himself for your episode. After all you decided not to pussyfoot around each other. You tell him that you think he is mad to suspect that Auggie is interested in you, but if there is any truth in it, you'll deal with it yourself. You promise to google how to let unwanted suitors down gently, you put another smiley. You are staring at the screen praying for him to answer quickly, your heart pounding in your throat, you hope he understands the meaning and somewhere there in his flat he is chuckling at the moment, but you can't tell for certain.

He answers with _Please, do, _thanks you for understanding and asks if you want to have lunch together tomorrow. You are momentarily flooded with hatred towards technology. You don't understand his intonation, it can be taken in so many ways, and you agree to the lunch, trying to delegate your enthusiasm. He promises to pick you up and wishes you good night. You want to run across the city, knock at his door and throw yourself at him. You also want to sleep in his bed. And maybe tell him you love him. You fall back into bed, press a pillow over your head, and cry yourself to sleep again. You are so tired from the emotional rollercoaster that nightmares don't come.

The next morning you wake up with one of your migraines, they are your bane, and you agonise over the lunch till the very last moment. You ask yourself if he might think you are avoiding him if you cancel, whether you should try to get up, but you can hardly open your eyes from the pain. It feels like there is a red hot rod stuck in your temple, your right eye is tearing up, and half of your face is numb. You take your painkillers but they don't help. You write six possible texts to him but send none, you can't decide, and eventually you start crying. You feel like an idiot, firstly it'll make pain worse, secondly you seem to do a lot of it these days. You let yourself cry for three minutes, you literally set a timer, then you drag yourself to the bathroom, holding on to the wall, wash your face with cold water and pick up your mobile. You don't look in the mirror, you know what you'll see there. Your face is white like a Kabuki mask, you have terrifying purple shadows under your eyes, your lips are red as if you have lipstick on them, and now you also have a bruise on your chin. You can't stand, you slide along the wall, and ring John. Calling on the phone is another trigger of yours, but he is worth it. You don't even have energy to practise what you are going to say in your head. He doesn't pick up for a while, and you almost give up, when you finally hear his voice.

"Yes, Wren?" His tone is colder than usual, and you think it's a wrong time. You are too weak to go into panic.

"John, I have migraine..." You didn't know how strange your voice was during migraines, you have never talked during these episodes.

"God, Wren, you sound horrible!"

His usual tone is back, and you breathe out, "I still want to see you..." You realise you don't care, nothing matters, neither your social anxiety, nor your worry that you are imposing, that he doesn't believe you, that you look like a vampire from a Murnau's film.

"Of course, what can I bring? Do you need anything?"

"Fish and chips." They do help, it's fat and salt. You will either throw up and make the pain twice as bad, or you might be able to open your eyes.

"I'll be at your place in twenty. Hang on there, love, OK?" You hum and hang up. You slide on the floor and press your temple to the cold tiles. Nothing else matters, just that he'll be here in twenty minutes. John will be with you in twenty minutes.


	41. Chapter 41

The doorbell rings in seventeen minutes, and if you could you'd laugh at it, or curse your sense of time. At the moment your only concern is how you are going to get up to let him in. You stand on all four, everything is black and white spots in front of your eyes, and you feel vomit rise. You need to go slow, but you also need to let him in. The mobile rings and Irene's theme from _BBC Sherlock_ drills into your brain. It's John's ringtone, and you blindly brush your hand on the tile where you think the mobile is.

"I'll open in a minute..."

"Wren!" His voice is frightened, and you breathe through nausea.

"It's OK, I'm just very weak… Give me a mo..."

You walk holding on to the wall, your eyes closed, you have extreme light sensitivity, and you buzz him in. He is running up the stairs, jumping over steps, since the number of his steps is less than the number of the steps in the staircase, and you sag into his arms. He catches you at the floor, there is a plastic bag on his forearm, and fish and chips burn your skin through the bag. You don't care, all you feel is that he is finally holding you.

"Oh my girl, my poor girl..." You have a sudden thought.

"It's not because of yesterday..." You rasp out, "It's the weather, the atmospheric pressure..." You can't have him blame himself for this as well. You should have known the migraine was coming, you did drink a lot of water yesterday, excessive thirst is part of your migraine aura.

He walks you back into the flat, jerking off his jacket and shaking off his shoes, not letting your out of his hands for a second, and you nuzzle him, whining.

"You smell so nice..."

"It's fish and chips." He tucks the bag on the nearest surface, and you push your arms around his waist.

"No, it's you… Just you..." You can hardly walk, your knees are shaking. You don't know how to ask him to pick you up. He is leading your back to the bedroom, and you are finally in bed again. The curtains are drawn but it still feels like you poured Tabasco in your eyes.

"Wren, what helps?" His voice is quiet and soft, and you think that he does.

"Eating sometimes… But I'm past it, I think… Too nauseated..." He sits on the bed near you and starts running his fingers through your hair. It feels so amazing that your eyes fly open. You can't see him well, it is actually very dark in the room, and you stretch your hands and brush your fingertips on his cheek and lips. You want him to kiss you, but you don't know how to ask, and you are trying to remember whether you brushed teeth today, and you probably look horrible. You are also cold, your teeth are chattering. You decide you don't care anymore.

"Can you lie down with me?" His fingers pause on your scalp, and you whimper from the feeling of loss. He goes back to brushing them, lightly pressing on the temple, then scraping the skin with his nails, which feels like he is erasing the pain with an eraser, as if there is a stripe of skin that doesn't feel excruciatingly painful where his fingers are touching, and then he gently rubs your nape, and then starts the sequence again. You think he should patent it.

"How do you want me to lie down?" You are not sure what he is asking about. "And are you sure about food? It might help."

"No, I just want you..." You have no energy to choose words more carefully. He lets you go for a second and lies down over the duvet. You make an unhappy sound. He takes the hint and rolls under it, and you finally press into him. You feel a jacket under your fingers, and you push your hand under it. There is a waistcoat. "Oh no..."

"What?" he asks worriedly, running his fingers through your hair.

"You were in a meeting..." You are embarrassed that you dragged him out of work, but even more so you are scared he'll have to leave soon.

"Forget it, nothing important. And I'm staying with you until you throw me out," his attempts in joking are rather pathetic.

"Then you are not leaving ever again." You are joking only partially. You move even closer and unbutton the waistcoat. He stills. The shirt under it is cotton, warm and bearing his smell, and you moan from pleasure. There is no tie, and your push your hand in the open collar. You are taking deep breaths, his cologne and his skin underneath is the best oxygen you know.

He goes back to massaging your head, his heart beating under your palm, and you mumble, "Do I look horrible?" The pain is dulled, he works better than any painkillers you've ever tried, and you start worrying. You shortly wonder where the concern with your looks suddenly even came from. It's not like you are attractive when you are healthy. But you remind yourself that he seems to like your odd looks.

"You are a bit pale." That's an understatement of the year. "Your eyes look amazing though." He chuckles, you haven't heard this sound for two days. You missed it.

"What about my eyes?"

"I've never seen a colour like that. I think that one is called teal." You remember what he is talking about. He is right, your eyes are odd, they change colour from green to pretty much all possible shades of grey and hazel. Teal is the colour of pain. You throw your leg around his, for more contact, and then suddenly realise how the combination of all your actions might seem to him. You unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat, your hand is on his skin, and now your leg is wrapped around him.

"John, I am not… I'm just hugging..." That sounds moronic, and he chuckles again.

"Darling, I'm hopeful but I'm not a plonker. I don't think you are interested in making out at the moment." His voice is warm and velvet, and you have an idiotic thought that you've missed him. You saw him yesterday. You don't want to ever again feel like you did in the last twenty four hours, you don't like coldness between you two.

"You still haven't kissed me hello..." He didn't yesterday either, but even you know mentioning a lovers tiff that is resolved is stupid. He picks up your hand from his chest and presses it to his lips.

"You should guide this one, Wren," his voice is even lower, "You are sick, and… Even though you look like protagonists of _Interview With Vampire_, you still make me randy. So you should lead here."

"Just one kiss..." You realise you sound sleepy. Sleep is the best medicine for this pain, but you want your kiss first. He shifts and tenderly presses his lips to yours. His taste is like coming home after months away, and you wrap your arms around his neck. He is looming over you, and you are not scared. He places another small kiss on the corner of your lips and moves away. You two return in the previous position, and you are so disoriented that you just blurt out, "Please, don't leave."

"Sleep, love, I'll be here," his tone is soft, and his fingers are once again in your hair. You fall through the darkness, warm and cozy.

**A/N: A small reminder that I have a Pinterest account (for visual inspirations for my stories; I assume most of you will appreciate assorted sweaters and tweed jackets on Maximiliano Patane as visuals for John :D) and DeviantArt page for my doodles. There is also Tumblr, but this one is pretty much nothing new (the same doodles and snippets of FF). **

**Check them out if you feel like it, the penname is the same, but DON'T expect too much :)**


	42. Chapter 42

You open your eyes. John is reading something on his phone, his reading glasses sitting on the middle of the bridge of his long nose. So you guess it was the glasses case you felt in his jacket pocket. You are curled into him, your hand on his chest. You gently brush your fingertips on the tiny ridges of texture on the tweed jacket, the corduroy of the waistcoat, and trace the lines on his blue checkered shirt. You know he is watching you, but you feel too shy to look up.

"How is your head?" His voice is soft, and you screw your eyes at him. He is smiling warmly.

"Feels empty. But there is no pain."

"Want some food?" You stretch your arm and place your hand at the back of his neck. You pull him down, he shifts, and you stretch towards him. His lips are warm. It starts tender, but you want him to lean more, and you grab the shoulder of his jacket and jerk him down, making him roll over you. You jolt, for a second it is terrifying, your throat constricts, but you concentrate of his taste and the considerate, tender caresses of his lips. He is still leaning on one of his elbow, half on his side, and his other hand cups your face. He is mindful of the bruise. The glasses are in the way, and you move away from him a bit. His lips are bright pink, pupils dilated, and you smile shyly. You touch the temples of the glasses.

"Can I?" He smiles, and you carefully take them off. He blinks several times, and it is such a vulnerable gesture that you exhale and feel slightly less tense. You pull him down to your lips again.

He gently strokes the tips of his fingers on your jaw, along your neck, and you drop your head back. He dives in and presses his lips to the pulse on your neck. You gasp loudly, and he shies away.

"No, no, it's good, just so sensitive..." He chuckles, though shakily.

"Isn't it the point?" You exhale loudly.

"If the point is to make me… excited, it's working..."

"Good to know," he murmurs, into your skin again, and his lips move along the tendon on your neck. He reaches your collarbones, and you take a spasmodic breath in. It feels like there is weight on your chest, although he is not pressing on you. You are not feeling suffocated actually, he didn't even put his leg on you. You are suddenly craving more. Your arms snake around his waist, and you pull him hesitantly. His lips pause on your neck. You give him a more confident tug.

He complies, and it is magnificent. You spread your legs accommodating him. He is supporting his torso on his elbows and finds your mouth again. You push your fingers in his hair. The kisses are becoming more heated, you open your mouth, his hand slides down on your shoulder and along your arm. His covers your palm that you readily opened for him, and you intertwine your fingers with his.

"John..." He lifts his face and you smile to him. "Can we try something more?"

"What did you have in mind?" One of the black eyebrows jumps up. You will never get tired of this gesture.

"I think we can take some clothes off. But I'll have to be on top." He is silent for a moment, you don't understand why he is frowning. You expected him to jump at the opportunity.

"Wren, you already look very nervous..."

"I am nervous," you interrupt, "But I always will be. And then I'll get used to new things… Like I got used to kissing… And this…" You stroke his shoulders, "Please?"

You two sit up on the bed, and he is looking at you expectedly. You've wanted to do the following for a while, the sheer thought is exhilarating. You push his jacket off his shoulders, and he chuckles. It sounds rather uncertain. You move closer and kiss him, and then drag the waistcoat off him as well. He is answering to your kiss, his hands still passively on the sheets. You push on his shoulders, and he lies down on his back. You straddle him and take a deep breath in.

You were planning to talk to your therapist about it before trying any intimacy with him and do several exposure sessions on exactly what you are so decisively planning to do now. You pull off your sweater and stay in your sport bra and a vest.

His eyes run down your neck, on the curve of your breast, he gently strokes your upper arms with his scorching palms, and then meets your eyes and smiles.

"You are very beautiful." You open you mouth, but then remember your sessions on proper social interactions.

"Thank you." You sound a bit mechanical but it's better than the panicked protest that was trying to erupt out of you. And then you add sincerely, "I'm really glad you like how I look." His guffaw is much more merry this time.

"Oh believe me I do. I am working really hard on not touching all of it here," he grins to you, the little crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

"Well, that's exactly what we are doing here. We are learning to… touch… and be touched," you blush furiously, the cheeks almost hurt but he chuckles warmly.

"Sounds great to me. Where do you want to start?" You gulp and quickly open one more button on his shirt. The edge of the tattoo is peeking from under the blue cotton, and you nervously wiggle your fingers in the air. You really want to trace the crisp black line. It probably shows on your face since he takes a deep breath in, you recognise his cooling himself down exhale that follows. You push yourself to lean forward and splay your hands on his chest. The hair is black and thick and coarse, and you firmly decide all men should be hairy. His hands lie on your sides, you gasp but meet his eyes, and he smiles to you encouragingly. You still don't dare move your hands, but his fingers twitch on you, and it feels so good, his large hot palms on your skin, just a thin layer of cotton separating your two that you tentatively stroke the rock hard muscles there.

"You are in a very good shape..." Apparently you blabber when you are aroused. He snortles.

"Thank you. Either this or no more pudding." You are studying how the hair moves when you run your fingers through it, "And it's also a habit. I was in a triathlon team in uni." You nod and pop the last button. You know what he looks under the shirt, you saw him in his pants, but it's different. And then you have a slightly panicked thought.

"Am I torturing you?" You go as far as jerking your hands off him. You press them to your chest.

"What?!" He even rises slightly on his elbows. That changes the angle of his body, and you affirm that it is indeed his erection that you feel under your thighs.

"We won't… I mean… I probably won't be able to go much further… And I feel like I am stringing you along..."

He opens his mouth and then claps it shut back. He gives it a thought, apparently he doesn't like his first response. "Can I sit up?" You nod. "No, seriously, are you comfortable with me sitting up?" You nod again. He lifts the upper half of his body and gently puts his hands on your shoulders.

"Wait," you don't let him talk. You are distracted, and if the two of you are to discuss how to proceed he needs your full attention. At the moment all you can think of is how he just moved like a large animal, seemingly no effort, all muscles, and you saw them bulge under his tanned, smooth skin in the open shirt, and you gulp. A flurry of images rushes through your head.

"Wren, what are you thinking now? You have an odd facial expression." His voice is concerned, and you once again can't keep your mouth shut.

"I am imagining things." His eyebrows jump up.

"Oh?" His voice is suddenly raspy. "What things?" You finally manage to look him in the eyes.

"I want… to touch and try things, but I'm afraid I'll freak out, and you'll… be already in the mood… and..." He tilts his head.

"Wren, I'm not a locomotive, I do have brakes." You giggle.

"Locomotives do have brakes. And... Wouldn't it be… uncomfortable?" He carefully pushes his hands under your arms, grazes your ribs, making you jump up a bit and giggle again, and then he loosely wraps his arms around you.

"I'm not comfortable. But neither are you. It is way more difficult for you than me. And we are… working on it. Why should it be your job to make me… comfortable?" He adds a lot of meaning in the last word with his inflection and a lifted eyebrow. You stretch your hand and run one finger along it. You did like touching it before, it's smooth and silky.

"I haven't thought of it this way." He hums, and you see that he is staring at your lips. You take a breath in for bravery and push his back on the bed. He lands with a oomph and chuckles throatily. "Alright, let's make you more uncomfortable." Apparently you can pronounce innuendos too.


	43. Chapter 43

It's been fifteen minutes since you pushed him on the bed. Or sixteen. Or twenty something minutes. Never in your life have you thought of time in terms of "twenty something," but here you are. You are stretched on his body, your hands wander, and it is amazing. Your lips feel tingly, and you assume it's the beard, you did spend a lot of time on it. You went as far as getting to his ears. That was fun, you paused, his chest rising in deep laboured breaths under your hand, and you caught his earlobe between your lips.

"God, Wren, you are driving me mad..." You do like this rasp. You hummed, and an idea came to you.

"How _does _it feel?" You yourself heard that you sounded like you were purring. You might be learning his body, it is hot, moving under your hands, it makes you feel very warm and pleasantly dizzy, but you are also learning a lot about yourself. You apparently purr, and you are greedy. Once you taste something, you want a lot of it.

He slightly rose, you tilted and turned your head a bit, and he gently kissed your ear. You giggled and looked at him. You felt some strange shift in your mind. The two of you are in your bedroom, and you are suddenly comfortable with it. He is not pushing, but he is not passive, he touches and kisses, considerate, but it doesn't feel like he is holding back. He is savouring, like with everything he does, he seems almost lazy. It feels nice, the two of you are almost talking through small slow caresses, and you think that you might as well talk as well.

"I liked that a lot." He smiled, and you leaned in and kissed the corner of his lip. Then you tilted your head again, in an invitation, and he copied your movement.

That is how these twenty something minutes have passed, the two of you taking turns, tasting and testing, offering ideas to each other, and trying them out. You found out that your neck is sensitive, that his ears are, and you are now certain his chest is really working for you.

You curl your fingers and run them down his pectoral muscles. His palms are on your sides, and you suddenly laugh loudly.

"Feel free to return the favour." His eyebrows jump up, and you are feeling so surprisingly easy that you pick up his hands and place them on your breasts. He shifts them, cupping your unimpressive tits, and you are listening to your sensations. You peek and see that it's really doing it for him. His eyes are burning, lips slightly open, and you giggle. He gently brushes his thumbs over the tips, and there is a low rumble in his chest.

"Enjoying yourself?" All that is happening feels so right and so much fun that it's making you very cheeky. His eyes were squinted in pleasure, they fly open, and he stares at you. You really like the rosy flush on his cheekbones above the black beard.

"Immensely. Are you?" You give him a smirk. You seem to be making progress in saying what you want, and you might as well continue.

"It doesn't feel like much," he starts lowering his hands, and you press your palms over them.

"I'm not saying it feels bad. Just I was expecting... It's usually such a big deal… The whole second base thing, in films and books, and they are supposed to be an erogenous zone..." He guffaws.

"And?" The black brow crawls up again, and you grab his ears and kiss him hard. He moans into your mouth, and you let him go, laughing.

"And nothing! It's not unpleasant, but the neck is more fun." He is chuckling too. "But you can go on, you seem to be enjoying them."

"_They _are wonderful, so neat," he slides his palms around your waist and rubs your stomach with him thumbs, "All of you is neat. So small and… springy." He funnily shakes his head, his waves bouncing around his head. "I am not saying it well, sorry."

"No, it's fine. Springy works," you settle more comfortably on him, already used to the feeling on his hot body under your pelvis. You are studying him, he is smiling. "This seems to be going well..." You sound very pleased with yourself, he grins wider.

"Yeah, it seems so. What do you want to do now?"

"Fish and chips," you nod decisively, and he roars with laughter.

You eat in your kitchen, and he tells how the exhibition is going. He buttoned up his shirt again, but left his waistcoat and jacket in the bedroom. You are constantly thinking about his body under that shirt, it's rumpled now, and his hair is a mess. You need to talk to Dr. Coutts about sex. You bring your mind back onto the moment, and you two chat amicably. The door opens, and Thea comes in. She is carrying several shopping bags, and you tense. Some of them have the brands of very expensive shoe shops on them. She is binge shopping, which means she is upset.

She joins the two of you, there is enough food for five, but she speaks very little, and you catch her frustrated eyes on John a lot. He finishes his fish quickly, excuses himself, lightly kisses you, and it's agreed that you'll ring him in a day or two. You really like that the decision is yours. He still sometimes sends you random texts, with quotes and some thoughts, but these days it's you who determines the time and place, unless there is something he really wants to see. You went to the cinema last week, because he really wanted to watch that blockbuster. You loved it. It was dark in the theater, and your social anxiety was dulled, no one could see you. You liked the popcorn, and holding his hand, and that at some point you forgot that you were there with him, because you were absorbed in the plot.

You close the door behind him and return to the kitchen. Thea is finishing a tart from the box she brought with her, and you stop yourself from cringing. You are eating so much better these days, but sugary things are still beyond your capacity. You work on expanding the list of thing you try, and going out really helps, and two weeks ago you even tried to cook at home. Your birthday is coming soon, and you consider asking for cookbooks from John and Thea. You plop on a chair in front of her.

"Thea, are you alright?" She lifts her eyes from her cup of tea and vaguely waves her hand in the air.

"Well, you know, so-so..." You are looking at her expectantly, and she jumps up and starts making tea for you. You are looking at her tense back.

"Thea?"

"It's not working with Jimmy, and I'm pissed off." She throws a tea spoon in the sink, it clanks, and you jolt. You are startled less and less these days, but that's one of your main triggers, domestic objects being thrown in a frustration. She turns around without noticing your state and puts a mug in front of you. On one hand, it takes a while for you to go back to baseline, your heart is pounding, and your palms are clammy, on the other hand you are having an amazing revelation. People don't always notice your state, and also, people seem to forget it easily. Thea would have never done it before, she has always been careful with you. And now she throws a spoon in anger. You like it.

"What is going on with Jimmy?" You doubt you can provide any insight, but out of all people you know how important it is just to be listened to sometimes.


	44. Chapter 44

**Personal A/N: As I have explained in "First Time, Every Time" I unfortunately developed carpal tunnel (and again, it's from the dissertation, FF has nothing to do with it! :D), so my updates these days are irregular. I'm still writing and updates are coming, I just have to take long breaks. Don't change the channel! :) Love you all, my duckies!**

Thea talks about her relationships, you two stay up late, so much tea is dunked in water you could possibly start another American Revolution, and you even answer, share your thoughts, tentatively, muttering and stumbling, but you do, she actually listens, and you feel good about it.

You offer her to go out the next evening, and after taking a long measured breath in you suggest her to invite couple of her girlfriends. Thea has myriad of friends, she possibly knows everyone in the city or at least has met them twice, and she gives you a slightly doubtful look. You nod confirming, you are very proud of yourself. This is one of those things Dr. Coutts told you of before. Taking initiative and engaging in some social activity on your own volition, that's huge. So, you and Thea agree to go to a small pub with her friends the next night. You don't drink, you are intolerant, but you listen to your sensations and think that you are almost excited.

John texts you the next morning and lets you know that he has trouble at work. He cancels the dinner you were to have two days later. You answer that you understand. He has never done it before but life happens. He also says he'll be probably engaged for the next week and a half, and you text back that it's fine.

You have other things to worry about. Besides meeting Thea's friends tonight, you also have a therapy session this morning, and now you need to process it. Dr. Coutts approved of your idea to expand your circle, and you two talked about meeting new people and having a social conversation. You still remember the social cues and proper reactions list she gave you before that pub night with John's friends that never happened, but you also talk about making an impression and establishing yourself in such circumstances.

You frown and fight with yourself, but you have gone a long way, and you understand that your first natural urge would be to determine yourself through your history and your trauma. The second urge is to use John the same way. He is such a big part of your new life and your new self that you are in danger of building your self-esteem around the fact that he is your boyfriend. He is fit, he is interesting, he is successful, and though you still can't comprehend it fully, he cares for you. You tentatively offer Dr. Coutts that you perhaps should try to avoid talking about him tonight. She claps and praises you. You nod and breathe out. You are a designer, you read a lot, you are a nerd, a Whovian, a photographer, you dabble in drawing and calligraphy, the women you'll meet are in arts, they are all on Tumblr, you have something to contribute to a conversation. After all you also love Sherlock and know who Sam and Dean are.

The second half of your session is what worries you. After chewing on your lip and wriggling your fingers you blurt out that you want to have sex with John. And then you correct yourself. You want to have sex. Period. Conveniently enough you happen to be in love and the man you are in love with wants to have sex with you, so yes, you want to have sex. With John. Dr. Coutts listens to your blabbering and nods. You tell her of your make out sessions and how it felt. How stretched on his body you felt some pressure and heat in your lower stomach, and you are not naive, you know how close it was to dry humping.

You discussed your sensations and ideas, and you come back from the session with 'homework'. You are supposed to buy a vibrator and watch porn, you are provided with a DVD. You are also supposed to fantasize and masturbate, imagining men and women, to explore your body and understand your preferences. It all is so medical and seems to have so little to do with what your felt when John's lips were sliding along your neck or when he would gently kiss your ear, that you find yourself sitting in the corner of your bedroom, your knees pulled to your nose. You are concentrating and bringing your anxiety to an acceptable level, but suddenly the idea of exploring your sexuality isn't that attractive anymore.

Thea knocks and comes in, and she is gorgeous. Thea is a goddess, she is tall and curvy, with luscious hair and plump lips, and cleavage that does indeed make you think you might be bi curious. She is dressed in a little black dress, lace and a wide silk belt, and pumps, she is not the one to shy away from her height, and she asks softly, "Wrennie, are you ready to go?" You lift your eyes at her and sniff.

"I am sorry, I haven't started getting ready yet. I'll change in a mo."

"Are you OK?" She doesn't sit up, you are normally uncomfortable with people moving your stuff around and sitting on your bed. John has been in your bed, and you are even considering inviting him there again. He was nice to have close. It is still strange to you. You are giving your current anxiety a thought. You need to process your aggravation yourself, but no one said you can't ask for help if you are completely lost.

"Yeah, just knackered. But I really want to go! I'll change and will be ready in ten. And, Thea..." She gives you an encouraging smile. "If I'm completely at sixes and sevens, will you help me… to buy a vibrator?"

Her eyebrows jump up, and she snorts. "Can you repeat that, please?'

"I need to buy a vibrator," the more you repeat it, the more surreal it sounds.

"Yes, Wrennie, most definitely! Are we going to a shop?"

"No!" You squeal, "Online, I'll shop online. I mean, I might be OK, but if it's absolutely overwhelming, I'll ask for your help, OK?" She is trying to suppress a smile, and you grab a cushion from the chair and hurl it at her. You suddenly feel hysterical laughter rising. You press your hands to your burning cheeks."God, I'm buying a vibrator..."

"You most definitely are," she is laughing openly now.

You pull out a pair of loose black trousers and a nice grey top from your wardrobe, Thea offers you a choice of her accessories, you pick a necklace and a bracelet, coral and bright, and you have to agree you don't look too bad. A sudden thought comes, you probably could go shopping and buy something, something pretty, just for yourself, a scarf perhaps, or warm fluffy socks, maybe some accessories, and you realise you need colours in your life. You borrow Thea's lipstick, she helps you put it on, and you look at yourself in the mirror. It might be the first time in your life when you looked into it and didn't wince away. You twirl and look at your back to see if the top wrinkles on your waist properly.

"It's a good arse you are faring there, darling, your Johnny boy must be constantly randy," Thea is fixing her mascara and gives you a flirty look askew, and you giggle.

"He says he takes a lot of cold showers," you sound way too pleased with yourself.

"He probably lives in an ice bath by now," she puts the mascara tube down and pulls out a lipstick, "And now you are buying a vibrator. My oh my..."


	45. Chapter 45

Anita and Margo, Thea's girlfriends, are perfect for being the first two people for you to try to have a social outing. Anita is soft spoken, deliberately careful in her words and movements, she works as a receptionist in a dental clinic. You wonder how she even knows Thea, and then it turns out they dated the same bloke simultaneously. To be precise, Anita dated him, while he decided to shag Thea. Thea threw his favourite guitar through a window and went to talk to Anita. It is exactly in Thea's character, she can't stand pricks. Surprisingly Anita took it well, and they have been mates ever since. Her features and blonde curls are as soft as her quiet voice.

Margo is loud, harsh, judgemental, she changes her opinion every five minutes, and orders a mojito after a mojito. She makes you jump and tense every time her frantic mind makes another unexpected turn, but you breathe through it and learn to cope with it. She is tall and slender, bordering to skinny, her hair died in raven black, heavy make up around her eyes. She works in one of the clubs Thea performs in.

At the beginning you wonder why Thea chose to invite these two girls but soon you understand her logic. When Margo's statement that a bloke who just passed your table looked like a nonce throws you off, you can hide in the safe haven of Anita softly asking you what sort of photography you do. On the other hand, you understand that being surrounded by Anitas would be dull. Opinionated Margo, with her vast sexual experience, several degrees in completely unrelated areas and numerous bracelets jingling on her slender wrists, is an uncomfortable but interesting conversation companion.

The topics covered by the end of the evening include Hitler's rise to power, stilettos, birth control, Matt Smith and whether he is fit, none of you thinks he is, but somehow given a chance, some of you might consider it, Obama's health care, whether broccoli and cheddar is even a dish, and consequently if there exists such thing as septic cuisine, Adele, whether shampoos can be replaced by conditioner only, and eventually whether there was a possibility to save Anakin.

In the taxi on the way home Thea hugs you. "Congratulations, Wrennie, you did well." You laugh and pat her back. It's funny how quickly she forgot that you can't stand physical contact. When her arm lay on your shoulders, you of course jerked but it's so fleeting that you laughed more, from sheer pleasure of breathing freely, from the warmth spreading through your body, from the delightful feeling of being tired after a lovely evening. Thea is squiffy and very affectionate. You laugh at her frolics, she is telling the cabbie that he looks like her Math teacher from when she was twelve. You two plod home, you are supporting her, and she dramatically picks up the sides of her long black fur coat and yells, "I'm Batman!"

You deposit her in her room, she hugs you again and suddenly snogs you. You laugh and gently push her on her bed.

"Your Johnny boy is a lucky duck," she is staring at the ceiling and shakes off her pumps in a funny uncoordinated gesture. One of them flies over your shoulder. "I wish there were a bloke like you there… You know, no judgement and just taking me as I am..." Her voice is sleepy. "Or maybe if you had a cock, that would be nice too… Though you are so small, nothing to hold on to..." She yawns loudly.

"You should change, Thea, and wash off the mascara. You always say that your eyes hurt the next morning if you don't." She hums in agreement.

"See, that's what I mean... Jimmy would say I drank too much..." Her tone is irritated, and you pat her gorgeous leg.

"Go to bed, Thea."

You are leaving her room, softly closing the door behind you, when her voice makes you halt. "I love you, Wrennie. I am glad you are… you know, getting out and stuff," she yawns again. You smile.

"I love you too. And good night."

Two days later Thea leaves on a week long tour, and you are busy with a new project. You are struggling with the design for a few days, but it becomes clear you can't do it alone. Instead of giving it up as you previously would, you email the office and ask for a meeting with the project superviser. You can feel his surprise seeping through the polite response in his email.

You do an exposure session at home the night before, put on another dull grey top and baggy jeans from your wardrobe and call a cab. You enter the office, and it feels like all eyes are on you. You remind yourself that it's actually not true, and even if people do notice that a previously reclusive colleague of theirs showed up in the office it will keep their attention only till lunch. You quickly walk through the hall and drop in a chair in front of Orwell. He is younger than you, endlessly talented, you like having him as your project supervisor. He is quiet and focused, funny freckles pepper his nose, and he wears argyle knitted vests. The meeting is actually very productive. You discuss work, so talking is easy for you. You've noticed recently it is easier for you to express your thoughts. Previously you were so reluctant to put them into words, your history making you scared of doing it wrong, not precisely enough. With John apparently you even blabber and blurt. You assume that if you had different history it could have been a characteristic innate in you, the lack of filter between the brain and mouth, you just developed a stopper there.

You leave work, and it turns out that the next door is a small shop of trinkets and accessories. You've worked in this firm for several years, you've never noticed. You spend eight minutes outside it pretending to text, gathering courage to come in. The problem is in a small shop all the attention of the shopping assistant will be focused on you. It's terrifying. When you went swim costume shopping, Thea took all of it onto herself. And no one would notice you when Thea was in a room. This time you are on your own. You enter, the girl at the counter lifts her head from her laptop, smiles to you absentmindedly and goes back to what she was doing before. It is bliss. You walk around and look at everything. It is an exhilarating feeling. You can buy anything you want. Colours, textures, shapes, angles, everything is exciting and new.

You buy a porcelain dwarf, you don't know why you chose him, but he is adorable. He looks very grumpy and is holding an ax in his hands. There isn't a single object in your room that isn't practical. One wall is a bookshelf, another one is a shelf with DVDs, there is a bedside table with a lamp, an alarm clock and a candle. Even the candle is not for decoration, your light conk out quite often. There are posters on the wall, but otherwise your room is bare. You will put the dwarf on your bedside table.

You buy a vintage postcard for Thea, she collects travel ones, this one has Hawaii on it, and after long consideration you buy yourself an infinity scarf. It is of the brightest avocado green. It looks even more loud with your mad orange hair, and you keep on staring at your reflection in the mirror. It will be the only item with any colour in it in your wardrobe.

"You should take it, it looks good," the girl throws you one glance and goes back to her screen.

You buy the scarf and go home, carrying the paper shopping bag as if it were the most precious of all treasures in the world. The dwarf finds his place, and you lie on the bed staring at his grouchy face. Soon you start laughing. He has a long nose and icy blue eyes, there are black braids on the sides of his face, the rest of his hair in soft waves on his back. The resemblance is minimal but you like the idea that you have a type.

The same evening the vibrator you bought online comes, and it's time to do your homework.


	46. Chapter 46

You are sitting in your room, legs crossed, on your bed, with your laptop and a vbrator in front of you. Thea is still away on tour, it is a quiet evening, pretty late, and you take a deep breath in and hit "play." Dr. Coutts warned you that you would instinctively try to avoid doing it, and she was right. It took your three days and a long list of excuses to finally get to it.

You were given two videos, one with a man and a woman, another one with a woman and a woman. They are tasteful, the photography is expensive, there are proper lights and props, and you remind yourself to stop evaluating it as a video production. Then you have to remind yourself that you are not watching a technical manual of how it is done. You are supposed to find what turns you on. Apparently, nothing. You are watching two bodies intertwine, and nothing stirs.

You are a virgin but you are not naive. Classical literature and other media provide a rather comprehensive picture of what physical intimacy is all about. You are a bookworm and a nerd. You know the mechanics, the biology behind it, you know the memes, and you know the social perception. You understand the power play, you are aware of diverse lifestyles associated with sex, you are conscious of violence and emotions that go with sex, porn, bodies, sex trafficing, marriage, and you do know where children come from. And that is pretty much all you see when you are watching a man performing a cunnilingus. You see a performance and a collection of social phenomena.

You pause, take a deep breath and try to reconnect with the moment. You are not watching to know what goes where, that much is clear, and again, it might be much more interesting and beneficial to explore through practice. You are watching to see what works for you. Your oversized brain, full of knowledge and useless snippets of information is not the problem here, your body is. You need to reconnect with it, to be one with it. As your favourite Leonard Cohen said, "There's a voice that sounds like God to me/declaring, declaring, declaring that your body's really you."

You pick up the virator, it's a simple thing, looks like those flashlights people attach to their car keys. It is supposed to be the least noisy, and it goes over your clothes. Extensive research you put into this purchase would make the best NASA analysts green with envy. At some point you considered building a bar chart. You chose a pretty one, nice silver colour, fluid shape. As a designer and an OCD case you feel very disturbed if something is disproportional. This thing is nice, you push the little soft button, and it start shaking on your palm, making gentle buzzing noise.

And then your brain turns on full scale. You suddenly perceive that you are sitting on your bed, while two people who probably don't particularly like each other are pretending to enjoy tasting each other's private parts, all their actions potentially having nothing to do with what happens in most bedrooms, while there is a metallic vibrating object on your palm that you are supposed to press to your sex organs. And all that supposedly has something to do with that warm fuzzy feeling you were getting when John was brushing his fingertips along your neck.

Tears spill out of your eyes. You really don't need this shit. You are hardly functional, you hate your body, your scars, you are constantly overwhelmed with the feeling of worthlessness and inadequacy, you are scarily skinny, reclusive, OCD, anxious, you have whole bunch of phobias, you don't bloody need another thing to feel inadequate about.

The understanding of how socially loaded sex is, how much pressure and expectations it brings in one's life makes you push the vibrator back into its stylish case and slam the lid. You take several measured breaths in. You don't owe anyone anything. You are not obliged to have a vibrator, to enjoy porn, to be a rabid nymphomaniac the media portraits a healthy woman to be. Maybe you don't even like sex. You have a history of violence, and whatever fairy tale caressing the two actors are currently performing on your screen, sex is about intrusion into another individual's personal space and literally intrusion into a female body. Something tells you you wouldn't look as happy as the brunette on the screen when the bloke's cock entered her vagina. Also, the actor on the screen is fairly moderately endowed. The man you envision when thinking of sex will hurt you. He won't want to, you know that much, but he will.

You go to the bathroom, splash cold water on your face, do several minutes of breathing exercises, come back on your bed and turn on the second video. Among other things you would prefer not to see another ejaculation in the nearest future, that was disgusting.

The two women on the screen are dressed like proper real life chicks, in denim and tees, and that makes you breathe freer. The evening dress, black lingerie and stilettos on the first woman only added to your discomfort. If that is what expected to turn a man on, you are on the losing team from the start. You are currently wearing dull flannel PJs, plaid, comfortable, and you don't own a single piece of lace lingerie. You wear sport bras and cotton knickers. To dress otherwise would be to pretend to be someone you aren't, and never will be. No sexy kittens here.

You wrap your duvet around your shoulders and watch them move. At some point one of them kisses the other one's neck, and then rubs her helix between her thumb and an index finger. You suddenly remember how it felt when John did the same, and it feels ticklish in your spine. The other girl giggles, and it is sincere and natural, and suddenly you feel hot. The blonde pushes her on the bed and falls on her jokingly. They are laughing, and the brunette underneath buries her hands into the blonde locks. Two pairs of soft pink lips meet, and you sharply inhale. There is heat pulling in your lower stomach, you can almost taste another girl's lips, feel silky skin under your fingers, how wonderful it must feel to caress those delicate shoulders, to run your tongue along the clavicles. You bite into your bottom lip. Mesmerized, you watch them undress and taste each other, mouths and hands exploring every inch of bodies. You squirm, and realise your knickers are wet. You finish the video and go back to the first one.

You are concentrating on the woman this time. You realise that before you were looking for a demonstration of skill, for instructions of what to do, this time you try to understand what the woman on the screen, sincerely or not, is trying to show she is feeling. And then an ingenious thought comes. You finally understand what is bothering you. You turn off the sound, and it all gets hundred times better. The moaning, the shuffling, his groans were apparently so annoying! You can't say John and you were particularly silent, but as a participant you hardly noticed. And again, after the low velvet rumbling your kisses to his ear elicited out of John makes the bloke's on screen moans sound like falsetto.

You finish the first video again, turning it off just before the salute at the end, and you stretch on the bed. You think that was enough for the first time. You were told to practice every day, only if the mood is appropriate of course, but still no chickening out or avoiding, and you decide the vibrator will have to wait till tomorrow.


	47. Chapter 47

The next day you decide to skip the video and settle under your duvet, only in kickers and a tee, with the vibrator clenched in your hand. You close your eyes and think of the two women you saw on the tape yesterday. It's not working, but again you are unlikely to have voyeuristic tendencies. Then you imagine being one of them. That works better. You imagine someone else's hands run along your body and brush your fingers on your arms and neck. It tickles but you concentrate on the images from yesterday. You imagine delicate fingers, with cute nails, short and round and pink, plump lips, long blonde hair. Somehow the blonde seemed more attractive to you, she seemed softer in character, light and sunny, and you imagine kissing the cute little dimple on her cheek. And then your mind suddenly picks up speed, your own hand brushes your nipple, you imagine her lips on it, and you hear your own loud moan. That halts you. You didn't care much for it when John tried it, and now you feel almost hungry. You try again, and the muscles between your legs constrict.

Half an hour later you are panting under your duvet, vibrator thankfully muffled under it so that the noise isn't distracting you, and you are that close to the first orgasm in your life. Intellectually you know it possibly isn't the first, but as a fully conscious one, it would be. You are physically capable of feeling arousal, and you have, but being turned on by Lady Chatterley's trysts is quite different from the heady intoxicating heat flooding your body at the moment.

Your phone beeps, and you start laughing loudly. You imagine it's John asking you what you are doing and your nonchalant answer, _Nothing, just masturbating imagining a tiny blonde kissing up along my thigh. _It's not John, it's Auggie cancelling tomorrow's class because of family reasons, and you text back telling him it's OK. You decide that was enough for one day and go to sleep.

You wake up from an interesting dream. If you were an adolescent boy that would be a wet dream. Almost, since you haven't reached completion, but you were very close. The dream involved John teaching you to swim. You thank your barmy brain that at least it wasn't Auggie. You settle deeper in your bed, and in half asleep state you recall the best parts. The water was unrealistically warm, his hands grazing your sides, fingers running up and down your spine, he was telling you that your back was slightly in the wrong position. You chose butterfly style when you and Auggie were discussing what you wanted to do. It's the hardest option you had, but as corny as it might seem you liked the significance of it. You want to be a butterfly, you are tired of being a cocooned caterpillar, not that there is anything wrong with caterpillars.

In butterfly style the leg action comes from the hips. The heels and soles of your feet should break the surface from underneath with your knees slightly bent on the upbeat. The dream John's fingers drew a tender circle on your knee while he was repeating these instructions. Auggie never touches you if it's not absolutely necessary. In your dream you were floating on your back, and John's fingers encircled your ankles, not squeezing or restricting, just caressing your skin with the pulps of his fingers, then his hands slid higher, and that's when you woke up. You close your eyes, and suddenly the image from your dream pops up in your mind, but this time his hands slide higher and higher, his thumbs are caressing your skin, already on the inner thighs, he is standing between your legs, you spread them wider, you don't have time to question whether it's physically possible to float like that, when a wave of scorching arousal rises in your lower stomach. You roll on your stomach, press your pelvis into bunched up sheets, the rumpled duvet presses into your clit, and you come.

You are lying on your bed, panting loudly, your hands shaking, and you press your forehead into a sheet. Your head is pleasantly empty, and you giggle. That wasn't bad, that wasn't bad at all. And maybe it's even worth it. You groan and sit up. Your extremities are boiled noodles, and your knickers are sticky, but all and all you think you'll do it again tonight.

Two days later you realise that John hasn't called or texted you for two weeks by now. You are not sure how that should be perceived. You also don't want to ask Thea who has returned from her tour. As little as you know about relationships, you understand that it is slightly out of the ordinary, and if it ends up having some reasonable explanation you don't want Thea to have a lower opinion of John. Knowing her she'll never forgive him. You on the other hand need to figure it out first.

You honestly don't know what the rules of engagement are here. Google search doesn't tell you anything obviously, and you give up after reading a couple of agony aunt's answers. They are very depressing. No because all those poor chicks were suggested to forget about the bloke who doesn't call for two weeks right away, but because all this dating and copping off biz seems very frustrating. People do put a lot of meaning into the smallest gestures from another person, trying to decipher every little thing. You honestly don't have the capacity for it.

You decide the matter will resolve itself and go to the pool for your usual class. You are doing surprisingly great for such a demanding style. It turns out you have strong arms and hands. The hands should enter about shoulder width apart with elbows bent and slightly higher than the hands. Auggie says he hasn't seen such a great stroke for a while. Surprisingly, you believe him, he seems sincere, you honestly enjoy your friendly but detached relationships. After John's jealousy fit you were tense with Auggie for a while, but it passed due to lack of evidence. You never discuss personal matters with Auggie, and you are happy with it, but surely he has a partner, he is a lovely person.

When you come back to the changing room you find a text from John who is asking if you want to meet for dinner the next day. You text back and agree. You set up time and place, but you have an unpleasant feeling from your exchange. His tone seems different, he seems tense, but again, it's hard to tell through texts. You ground yourself, tell yourself your "feelings" can't be trusted, you are a person with anxieties. You will go, see him and talk to him, and make an informed decision. You have grown a lot since the day you found him in your bathroom. You trust your judgment more these days. You just need to see him, no assumptions and ungrounded suspicions, and you will know.


	48. Chapter 48

You enter the small Vietnamese place you agreed to have dinner in, and John gets up from behind the table he was already sitting at. The first sensation is a wave of warmth you feel when you see him, always mixed with a funny surprise at his height and the width of his shoulders, it's like every time you manage to forget how much space he is taking in this world. You step closer, he leans in, his hand gently lies on your shoulder, and his lips are pressed to your cheek. You like this greeting, it's very tender. You like the beard and moustache brushing on your skin, the tinge of his cologne in the air, the caress of the warmth from his body. You are probably squinting like a cat from pleasure.

He straightens up, and you meet his eyes. You missed their bright, glacial colour, but this time they are uncertain, some strange emotions in them, and you tense. You want to immediately ask what is wrong, but even you are not that socially awkward. You are just hoping that knowing you quite well he is not going to drag it for too long and will actually say what's bothering him soon.

He opens his mouth, and then a waiter jumps up at you two. He is fussing around with menus, you are trying to get our of your coat, John is still standing. He has impeccable manners. He never sits first if a woman is standing in front of him. Except with you at the very beginning, when he was trying not to freak you out, which you really appreciated, considering his size. Him sitting passively then was a relief. You sit down, the waiter brings tea, John is still silent, and you start shaking. Perhaps you have overestimated your strength these days, you are hardly managing the smallest changes, how are you supposed to deal with what google would characterize as him potentially "having cold feet due to his fear of commitment" or "needing space" or "just not being that much into you"?

He sharply exhales, you say your "hello" and he says "Wren" at the same time. Both of you freeze, and you grab a cup and take a giant gulp of boiling tea just to be busy. It burns your tongue and throat, and you start coughing loudly. His face contorts, and you consider running. No matter how far you've gone from what you were when you met, even though you now know what orgasm is and bought yourself an Afghan turquoise necklace this morning, you still always note where an exit is from any room you are in and can clearly imagine rushing out through it.

"Wren, I am sorry..." He steeples his hands on the table and stares at them.

"For what?" Your oversized brain gives you twenty seven possible things for him to have done and regret now. The top three are finally deciding to break up with you since he can't do it anymore, shagging someone since he is human afterall, and coming here to give you an ultimatum of sorts. The last one is vague but you feel unfamiliar urgency in him. He is always warm, relaxed, movements lazy and fluid, at the moment he is fidgeting with a napkin.

"For disappearing for two weeks. It's not done, and I understand that you might be cheesed off… You have every right to, I should have called, and..." He is talking in a low, hollow voice and finally looks at you, and then he chokes on his words. His face is suddenly disbelieving, and then even more upset. "You don't even know what I am talking about… God, Wren, I feel more of a wanker now. You should be pissed off, and you are just..." You gulp and stare at him. What else are you supposed to do? You have no idea what's going on.

"Wren, I made the worst faux pas in relationships here. I didn't call for two weeks, and you are supposed to be angry with me," he rubs his face with his palms.

"You told me you were engaged at work." He nods mournfully. You are panicking more and more with every second. "Was that supposed to mean something else? Was I supposed to get something else out of it? I mean, I have no idea how dating works..."

"Wren, I'm the tosser and the pillock here, OK? Not you. Not a single little thing in here is your fault!" He raises his voice, and you wince. He closes his eyes and takes a few measured breaths in. He is so obviously grounding himself, bringing his thoughts down to the current moment, that you wonder in astonishment how you managed to never notice that he is using the same very techniques that you do. You've been so absorbed in your own journey that you have somehow missed the most obvious fact. He is in therapy as well.

"Wren, I did have problems at work, I was… struggling with them, and I chickened out, and because I didn't want to drag them into our relationships, I… sodded off." The fact that he is using slightly sharper expressions once again tells you how emotional he actually is at the moment. He is still mellow, his voice is even, but you wonder how much of this is his actual temper and how much is the product of undoubtedly very hard work on himself. "I am not nice to be with when I'm… stressed. But I still should have called. And I am sorry..." He finally lifts his eyes from the table cloth, they are pained, and you are chewing at your bottom lip. You need to think your answer through.

Your jolly waiter shows up asking for your order, neither of you has even looked at the menus, and John turns to him to ask for couple more minutes. His face wavers, and the waiters scampers away. That is another thing you've never paid much attention, being so wrapped up in your own drama. John is intimidating, and now, when his eyes were sharp and tense, the poor waiter almost ran back into the kitchen. John looks at you again, his eyes immediately soft and emotional, and you are not certain what you are feeling.

Mostly you feel disturbed. You are just realising that relationships are so much more than finally managing to kiss and let someone hug you in a public place. He is a person, and being with him means not just sharing your problems and your trauma with him, but taking his on yourself.

You follow his example, you take a deep breath in, and try to find your baseline here. You need to think about it and tread carefully. First of all, you need to understand what you want here. You go for a safe choice, you pick up the menu and shield yourself from him with it. You need to breathe and think.

**A/N: Those of you, my duckies, who also read "****First Time, Every Time****" please note the announcement posted as chapter 33, which is now chapter 26 in "Stealing Thorin's Thunder" :D**


	49. Chapter 49

And then you understand what you just did. You left him hanging, you hid behind a laminated list of soups and curries, without telling him what you think, without answering to his apology. You lower the menu and see that he is not looking into his. There are tense knots on his jaw, and he is looking somewhere above your head. Long time ago he asked you to be kind to him, and you did just the opposite.

"John..." He shifts his eyes and meets yours, his jaw set, his eyes distressed. "I am fine… I mean, it's fine that you haven't called. I didn't get upset, I realised it was a rather unusual behaviour, but you always give me the benefit of doubt, and I think you are entitled to some as well. So, apology actually, no apology needed."

He blinks. His face is very expressive, especially the thick black eyebrows, but normally the movements are very slight, the twitches of the corners of his lips, the brows, hardly perceptible squints. The full blown blink like that means you've shocked him. You smile to him. You want to be kind to him. He needs you to right now.

"I googled what it means if a bloke doesn't call you for two weeks. Cosmo told me you are shagging your colleague. I took their quiz and apparently the aforementioned colleague of yours is male." He is staring at you. You immediately feel mortified, apparently your joke fell flat. You should have known your sense of humour is most likely off. You don't use it much, maybe you don't even have one.

"Don't be ridiculous, Wren," his tone is grumpy, "There were both men and women in that orgy," his face is absolutely calm, and it's your turn to blink like a dimwit. You snortle first, a grin spreads on his face, you giggle. He suddenly jumps up from his chair, kneels in front of you and leans to your lips. His lashes flutter but there is a nanosecond when you see him wonder whether he is still supposed to ask for consent, you told him to stop some time ago, soon after the first copping off session on a li-lo, and you lunge and catch his mouth. He laughs into your lips, you wrap your arms around his neck, and the waiter pops up like a jack in a box, and suddenly starts clapping his hands and cheerings.

"Oh lovely, wedding! Weddings are happy event! No one has ever proposed in my cafe before!" You start laughing hysterically, and John hides his face into your neck. His shoulders are shaking, you love his full body laughter, and you are almost not sure whether to laugh or cry from the absurdity of the situation. John whispers into your ear, and it's not helping you to calm down at all.

"Let's carry on with the show, maybe we'll get a discount." He lifts his face, his eyes are brilliant, and you kiss him. You have missed him so much!

The dinner is a comedy of errors. You are in danger of dying of suffocation at least ten times, including the time you choke on a baby corn when John explains to Mr. Phan, who turns out the owner of the cafe, that there is no engagement ring because of your radical feminist views, and you receive a disapproving look from the small man. You two still receive colourful congratulations and a small red can of wedding tea as a gift, although you two manage to refuse to pay less for your dinner, which causes a long, loud dispute between John and Mr. Phan, full of courteous mutual bows and shaking of heads and flailing arms, through which you learn that John speaks Vietnamese and apparently you are a "stroppy wife to be" according to John's off handed translation. You blush and get busy studying the tea can. It is gorgeous. Half an hour later the men hug, and you are finally let go by Mr. Phan who is wiping happy tears and waves his hand.

You rush outside and take a big gulp of frosty air. "I feel horrible," you are clenching the can in your mitts.

"I am not," John is wrapping his long colourful scarf around his neck.

"We lied to him!" You are shaking the tea in front of John's nose. "We got a gift that we don't deserve."

"Well, what did you want to do? Break his heart and tell him he can't now tell his other customers that a lovely couple found their happiness in his cafe?" You are frowning at John, and he pulls you into him and nuzzles the top of your head. "And who said we won't need this tea one day?" You give him a sensitive punch under the ribs. He gasps and starts laughing. "OK, that was cheap, but honestly, we are a couple, I was on one knee, makes perfect sense." You twist out of his arms.

"What else did you tell poor Mr. Phan?" You are eyeing him with suspicion, and he guffaws.

"Truth, only truth and nothing but the truth. How you saved me from spending a night in the streets in the cold, and I took care of you when you were sick. And that I am the luckiest man alive."

"You are endlessly corny today," your tone is sarcastic, you are enjoying this fake banter endlessly. You start marching ahead, he is following you like a puppy, a six foot five puppy. He is making funny faces, you are pretending to pout.

"I am compensating for two weeks of being a wanker here, Wren. And I've missed you..." His tone is suddenly sincere, and you slow down. He sharply turns you, his hands on your shoudlers, but not too tight, so you can move back of you don't like it. You let him, it's fun, and suddenly he drops on one knee again, this time into the snow, and you gasp.

"What are you…?"

"Wren, I know it is all very unexpected… but will you be my ever so forgiving girlfriend and invite me for a cuppa upstairs?" He manages to keep his face straight almost till the very end, and you emit a rather convincing undignified "oh you," you are internally applauding your suddenly manifesting acting skills, and push him in the nearest snow drift. He is roaring with laughter. You consider pushing some snow under his collar. Instead you straddle him and press your hands into his shoulders.

"Behave yourself, Thorington, or I might decide more groveling is required."

"Invite me upstairs, and I will do thorough groveling, very… very… thorough groveling..." His voice couldn't sound any more indecent. The velvet, the rasp, the suggestively lifted brow, and you lean in, your lips are an inch away from his, and his eyes darken and lips slightly open.

"Tough tits," you murmur into his eyes and jump off him. He is spread on the ground like an eagle, he presses his glove covered hand to his chest over his heart, and emits a sorrowful bellow.

"Shattered... in pieces... my heart is crushed, no hope for recovery..." His performance is worthy of the Globe, and you snortle.

"I suggest you get up, you might have issues with some other of your organs if you don't." He dramatically throws his arm across his eyes.

"I can't. I am devastated and weakened by the cruel rejection."

"I'm not giving you a hand, I'm not that naive," you are standing at a safe distance from him, and he peeks from under his sleeve. You can't stop grinning. "And stop your dramatics, Thea is home anyroad." The previously lifted arm flops on the ground, and he quite convincingly pretends to lose consciousness.

"I can have a cup of Earl Grey with you in Starbucks," you pretend to find this concession very difficult. He jumps up on his feet with impressive speed and loops his arm, brilliant grin blooming on his face.


	50. Chapter 50

You are standing in the end of the counter in Starbucks waiting for your tea and John's camomile. He is behind you, and even through two parkas you know how close his body is to you. Goosebumps are galloping down your back, when he steps even closer and leans in to your ear. One of your curls bobs from his breath.

"You called me Thorington outside." You hum and have to clear your throat.

"It is your surname," you sound squeaky.

"That was very, very intimate, you should probably refrain from doing it in public places." His voice is smoky, and his breath is tickling your helix.

"It _is _your surname," you repeat, you have nothing better, and you are dizzy from his closeness. You are reminded you haven't touched him for two weeks, and you are also reminded of all those things you've been imagining during your exploration sessions. You are industrious, you do try to expand the repertoire of your fantasies, but if you are thinking about a male partner, it's hard to imagine anyone else.

"And you never used it before," this time his lips do brush your ear, and your body jolts, in a good way, not startled, but very, very turned on. "I love it."

You grab your tea cup and rush to the nearest unoccupied table. He is chuckling behind you. He shrugs off his jacket and settles in the armchair in front of you. You love how he dresses, it is very John, always layers, plenty of plaid, tweed and cashmere, soft and distinct textures, like waffle weave on cardigans, he is wearing a shawl collared oxblood one now, over a checkered shirt, there are all those warm colours on him at all times, olive and terracotta, browns, ivory, the scarfs long and stripy, this one has blues and dark red stripes in it, and it somehow works. There are always toggle buttons on at least one of his layers, and you feel like teasing him that they look like animal fangs and whether he is considering himself a lonely wolf. You like the vests, the knitted gloves, lug boots with denim panels, and how all of him is so cozy and exciting at the same time.

"Are you ogling me?" He is stirring a bucket of honey into his camomile. You'd probably vomit from the sweetness.

"I'm wondering how can you even still taste anything?" He smirks and takes a big sip. He licks his lips, and you are hot. You jerk off your jacket and the scarf, although you very rarely do, you are always cold, and start fidgeting with the tag on your teabag. He is quiet, letting you think.

You are still processing your revelation from the restaurant and ask, "Why are you in therapy?"

He exhales sharply and takes a slow sip of tea, stalling. "I sometimes forget how amazing your brain is, Wren." You are waiting for his answer. "For anger management problems. And saviour complex. I don't have grandiose delusions, but I do have a god complex. Which you surely know aren't clinical terms but sum up my issues rather well."

You are studying his face. He is uncomfortable, but not stressed. He has processed his issues, you recognize the acceptance. You seem to be reaching your own, on good days, and only in some areas, but you are getting there. Another thought comes.

"Wouldn't it make relationships with me the worst possible option for you?" Your voice is small, you are scared he'd say 'yes,' though you know that it is indeed the right answer. He wants to be a messiah, you need saving, or at least so it seems on the surface.

"It would have been if I didn't know what to look out for," he puts his cup down and leans ahead, he locks his hands and looks at them. He does it to ground himself, he needs a point of focus to formulate his thoughts the best, without your eyes distracting him. It is the same as when you close your eyes. How could you have been so blind? On the other hand he did tell you all of that from the start, you just didn't listen. "Wren, my therapist did indeed cautioned me from all the traps relationships with you could have posed. Such as me being overbearing, excessively controlling, unreasonably jealous," he clenches his jaw, "Not wanting anyone else to participate in your healing." You bite into your bottom lip, that sounds rather insulting. No one is participating in your healing, you are healing yourself. "All that being assumptions natural for a puffed-up, self-assured prick I had been before Killian returned from Afghanistan." He rubs his chin with his large palm and looks you in the eyes. "He was broken, aggressive, didn't trust anybody, couldn't sleep. I made it worse." You are silent, letting him talk. He suddenly looks very tired. "I am as much as a father to him, we brought him and his brother together with Dea, their father died when they were very small." You assume Dea is his sister. "And I thought I'd saunter in with my ego, and majestic bloody halo around my giant head, all my life figured out, all answers ready for Killian." His voice is bitter. "I was the worse that could have happened to him. I didn't listen, I meddled, I didn't give him space, a chance to help himself, to heal." He is once again looking at his steepled fingers, a stern distressed line of his lips is such a contrast to his usual soft smile. "And then it got nasty. Because it wasn't working and because I was angry with myself, and that's when the temper rose." You remember him mentioning he swims three times a week. And then you remember the meditation books in his flat, and discs with Anzan, and a pull-up bar in one of the door frames. For a person with constant vigilance you surely should have paid more attention.

"Is that what happened with me and Auggie? I still don't understand..." You ask quietly, and he nods heavily. "Because he is hardly interested in me, I mean, since then..."

"He probably isn't," John chuckles joylessly, "But once the anger or jealousy kicks in, the brain is kaputt." He taps his temple with his index finger, his eyes are miserable, and you frown.

"And these two weeks?" Since you are investigating, you decide to be thorough.

"We have issues at work..." He leans back in his chair and rubs his face. "Human stupidity knows no limits, you know? Someone botched up the expo, we have to deal with the museum not being happy with us. And I am trying to keep my temper under control while I am there, but then I come home and I need to address it, manage it, and I thought I'd meet up with you and wouldn't be able to keep it out of... 'us'… You know?" He looks at you, his eyes begging for understanding, and you nod. You do understand.

"I told you, I am fine with it.'

"You shouldn't be, it was wrong..."

"It wasn't," your tone if firm, and you are surprised at your certainty yourself. "It is a ridiculous, media imposed notion that people in relationships should keep tabs on each other at all times. You had your process, I had mine. I made a few important steps ahead myself, and I needed to concentrate on them too." He exhales and finally smiles sincerely.

"I'd feel jealous and left out if I wasn't better these days." You chuckle.

"I'd feel I should have reassured you that nothing in my life went without your participation just to please you if I wasn't better." He guffaws.

"Touche. So what were those important steps if any of them are my business and you feel like sharing?" He seems to be finally relaxing and smiles over the rim of his cup, and you do have something to tell him.


	51. Chapter 51

"I think I have figured out the sex thing." You always thought that people spit their drinks only in cartoons, and here you are, looking at John who is frantically wiping his tea from his beard and the table in front of him. You honestly felt very nonchalant about it, you weren't acting. Apparently it somehow works differently for him, or all men, because you felt you were being reasonable, and somewhat clinical about it, and he is choking and looks at you as if you just offered him to do it right there on the table.

"I am sorry, what?" His voice is coarse, and he is taking short open-mouthed breaths in.

"I'm sorry, I thought I should tell you… I talked to my therapist about it, and did a few session of exposure and self-stimulation..." That seems to be his limit, and he lifts his hand in a cautioning gesture.

"Wren, I'm sorry but can you please stop talking?" You close your mouth with a clank of teeth. "The last thing I need at the moment is an image of you stimulating yourself..." He suddenly freezes, you assume he has gotten exactly what he was trying to avoid, and he rasps, "Bugger..." That wasn't the point, you are trying to tell him about your progress, it does concern him afterall.

"I was trying to be rational about it. I mean it is an issue between us, and I think I found the solution." He is still staring at you. "Do you want to hear my ideas?"

"God forbid no," his tone is sharp, and you tense. You assumed he'd want to address it as soon as possible. "Wren, I haven't seen you for two weeks, I am fighting a hard-on pretty much at all times, unless I'm talking about my psychological issues, and this sweater of yours is driving me bonkers. Can we at least not talk about sex openly until we are alone?" His tone is pleading, and you drop your eyes at your sweater. It's a dull grey turtle neck. You are also wearing your usual baggy trousers, and bulky winter boots. You raise astonished eyes at him. He looks as if he is pain.

"I am sorry, I didn't realise..."

"You quite obviously didn't." He stretches his hand and grabs your cup. He takes a big gulp of your Earl Grey and cringes. "Is there any sugar in it?" You giggle nervously.

"There is honey."

"No, seriously, Wren, you need more sugar in your life." He realises his innuendo the moment it falls from his lips. You see the exact moment, his pupils dilate, and he groans. You are giggling louder. "Right… That has to stop… Work, work, how was your work?" His voice is unnaturally cheerful, and you suddenly feel better. The two of you are doing fine.

Three hours later, and time does fly fast when you two chat, he walks you home. By the entrance door you turn around to say goodbye, and he cups your face and pulls you into a very heated kiss. It is different, you feel his hunger and passion, and he seems to be restraining himself just a bit less today. It might be the two weeks, or you mentioning sex in Starbucks, but he is looming over you, you have to drop your head back, and his mouth is greedy. You place your hand on his jaw, and he tears his mouth from yours. He thinks you are stopping him.

"Sorry, I..."

"It's fine, I just missed the beard..." You giggle, you are not scared, you actually feel the same. You stand on your tiptoes and he bends more, catching your mouth again.

"That thing you figured out..." He is raspy, "What?.. Should we make a date?.." You moan, his lips are on your neck, and his hot breath on your skin feels amazing.

"Next week maybe?" You quickly calculate your cycle. "On Friday?" He makes a strange choked noise. "We should have dinner at your place." You have a plan by now, but them you start shaking. You are suddenly nervous, and he jerks. He moves away and cups your face again.

"Wren, no pressure right? I mean we don't have to do anything." He is searching your eyes, "You can tell me your ideas then, and we can play it by ear. Or not. We can just have dinner and talk." You nod, and then you rise on your tiptoes again and quickly kiss the corner of his lips.

"And kiss a bit?" You murmur and shift your lips to his beard. You love the tingling on the whiskers on your skin.

"Yeah, if you insist..." In a contrast to his joking tone he is breathing heavily.

"Since you have no li-lo it might have to be on your bed..." He groans and slightly turns his head offering you his jaw for kisses. You are very much pleased with it, and then you lips brush his throat, and he jerks away from you.

"You are getting too good in driving me crazy, Wren..." His eyes are dark, "I used to be able to last longer without needing to stick my head into a freezer." You might have a rather self-satisfied grin on your face.

You two kiss for another few minutes, finally say goodbye, and you rush upstairs. You spend the next hour doing breathing exercises, being mindful, you are too wound up. You don't let yourself think about next Friday, you go to sleep, but you do have a plan.

It has to change though, once on Monday John calls you and asks if you think you could survive a dinner with his family. His tone is uncertain, they have jumped at him with it, and he doesn't know whether you feel like it. It is still at his place, and that very Friday you were planning to make a step forward in your intimacy, and you both know that two big events in one night is more than you can handle. You ask for half an hour to think, and then ring him back. You choose a dinner with his family. You think you know him well enough by now, he would try to avoid making you do it if he had choice, and you do know how important they are to him. And again, there is always Saturday.


	52. Chapter 52

John is inviting his sister, Deadre, and both her sons, Philip and Killian, but you have a feeling it's more like them inviting themselves. He also offers to add someone else into the mix, "to dilute the Thoringtons" in his words, but you think it's already too many people for your comfort. You do thorough exposure sessions, discuss the visit with your therapist, and try to find out as much as possible about them in advance. According to John, his sister might seem cold but she is "good sport," whatever it means, Philip is apparently a ball of sunshine, and while speaking of Killian John becomes tense and his speech sounds abrupt. You on the other hand worry about Killian the least, if you understand his situation right, he is not actually interested in meeting you, they probably drag him with them, thinking that family time will be good for him. You sympathize him deeply. You don't know him, but somehow you feel that the two of you are in the same boat here, having to deal with the Thoringtons. Funnily enough, both Philip and Killian kept their mother's maiden name, and you wonder how proud they must be of their heritage. Dea is a widow, her husband died when the boys were four and six, and she is frightening you most. Accordingly to John they have amicable though detached relationships, they were close friends until their adolescent years, and as his older sibling she "can be slightly overprotective." This is the part that scares you most. You wouldn't want your brother, if you had any, to date the likes of you.

You spent two days before the date torn between two opposite thoughts. On one hand, you want to hide who you are, pretend to be someone else. You could try, put on nice colourful clothes, perhaps borrow some makeup from Thea, smile and chat. You don't know if you'd have enough talent in acting for that, and also how you would face John afterwards, because he surely would be surprised to see a person completely different from the woman he is dating. On the other hand, you wonder if you might be good enough to be introduced to his family. You are not determined by your trauma, by your history, you keep on reminding yourself, it is the same as going to a pub with Thea's friends, it's not about hiding your history, it's about being the present you. The present you isn't doing that bad, she has an interesting job, she has hobbies, and last night she managed to bake a cake. She has a boyfriend she loves.

You are lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling and suddenly feel you need to tell him that. He still doesn't know, he is being patient, waiting you to get there, maybe not even waiting, just hoping, and you still haven't told him.

Thea knocks at your door, and you let her in. You are ready, dressed, and you even styled your hair. It has grown out now, it's more of an asymmetrical bob, reaching your chin on one side, covering your ear on the other, and your fingers are locked on your stomach, because you are fighting nausea.

"You look very good," Thea's tone is soft, and you look at her. You put on a new top you ordered online last week. It's still black and white, no colours, but it has stripes of irregular width, it has a very Jean Seberg from "Breathless" vibe to it. You are in your best baggy trousers, and you pulled out the only pair of decent shoes you have in your wardrobe. They are Solovair Heritage Women Oxford Brogue, black Scotch grain leather, and Thea is standing studying them on your feet. "The shoes are ace."

"I am scared," you sound squeaky, and she comes closer. "I wish I had said 'no' and just had sex with him."

There is a long pause, and you raise your head to look at Thea. She is standing with her mouth half open, her eyes twice the normal size.

"Were there any other options there, Wrennie? It does sound a wee bit restricting." You start giggling hysterically.

"We were supposed to have dinner tonight and I was going to try, because as mind-blowingly as it sounds… I think I want it… And I might be ready for it..." You are staring at the ceiling again. "But now this dinner is happening, and I'm so scared..." You are cold again, and you close your eyes.

Thea sits on your bed, you feel her weight press the mattress down, and she gently touches your shoulder. You suppress a shiver and open your eyes.

"OK, Wrennie, I don't know what your jolly smart therapist told you, but I'm going to share my wisdom with you right now," she is smiling warmly, and you take an easier breath in. "You are going to go there, and meet them, and they might hate you. Like really fucking hate you. Especially his sister, because you are like that wolf, snacking on her lamb. Especially since he doesn't date, and now there is you, and he is head over heels, and even wants you to meet them, so yeah… She'll probably be an uber bitch to you. But you know what?" You are counting your breaths.

"What?"

"It has nothing to do with you. She'd hate you even if you were… well, I don't know… me!" Her eyes are laughing, "Everyone loves me but she'd probably hate my guts. So what's the point to worry about her opinion? He loves you, I love you, we know you and love you, whatever this chavvy Mrs. I sent-my-boys-into-a-war thinks, who gives a fuck?"

You blink and digest Thea's wisdom. And Thea is Thea, so she goes on, "And please, keep your eyes open, and tell me later how the nephews are, because sod it, girl, the genetics in this pool are sterling!" You manage a small smile. "And again there will be options on the menu, am I right? A blonde and a dark haired one, and I do love myself a septic ice cream twist." She is twirling a finger in a spiral in the air, your cheeks are starting to burn, she is so obviously imagining a threesome that you laugh, sit up and hug her.

"Thank you. For loving me and for telling me all this." She pats your back and chuckles.

"De nada, chick. But I demand photos." You laugh again and promise.

Five to seven you climb out of the cab and stop in front of John's building. Aside from the thirty two things you are worrying about right now, you came too early, somehow the trip took less than usual, and you'd hoped to be politely fifteen minutes late. You shift between your feet, not sure what to do, you are freezing, you always are and more so now that you are bricking it, and then the front door suddenly bursts open, and John comes out. He is wearing a grey tee and a soft ivory cardigan, he rushes to you, wide smile on his face, and you jump into his arms, he bends, and you hang on him. He is scorching, and you press your lips to his before he even manages to say anything. His large hands are grabbing your parka, and you are pulling him down, to yourself, closer, you can't get enough. You are snogging like teenagers in the middle of the street, and a passing car honks to you. You don't care, his taste fills your head with some bubbling giddiness, and you moan into his mouth. There is a cough, and you tear your mouth from his.

There are three people standing in the door frame, they probably just came as well, and John was letting them in, which explains why he was here. Your cheeks start burning, and you try to scamper away from him. You have just kissed him the way no relative should see, to think of it no one should see such indecency altogether, and then you are even more mortified, when you realise that you wrapped a leg around him. You try to jerk away from him, he carefully puts you down, apparently he picked you up, and you want to run.

"Hi, I'm Phil!" The blonde is indeed the ball of sunshine, he funnily waves his hand, his smile can potentially charge batteries, but there is no sleaziness or innuendo in his tone, his blue eyes that look so much like John's are friendly and sincere, and you exhale.

"Hi, I'm Wren."


	53. Chapter 53

John introduces you to his sister, and you smile to her awkwardly. You have just pretty much copped off with her brother in the middle of the street, and her cold blue eyes run over you. She is tall, like John, very similar bone structure, in her face the features are almost too harsh, but altogether she is a very attractive, elegant woman, she also looks endlessly tired. She is quite obviously thinned, there is some sort of worn-out passivity in her. She looks like all those relatives and partners that would pick up people after the group sessions you used to attend. You assume that taking care of two sons, wounded in a battle, one with emotional issues, another with fractured bones in his leg, took its toll on her.

She shakes your hand, and you turn to Killian. He looks exactly the way you assumed he would. Every trauma is different, each story is unique, but you see the fear, the anger and the tiredness you know there were in your eyes as well. He is also thinned, there are purple shadows under his eyes, he is obviously sleep deprived. He is also mind-blowingly fit. You find it almost ironic that the first man you noticed was attractive after John is his nephew and has disorder similar to yours, although you care very little about his psychological issues. You feel physically uncomfortable from his attractiveness. You try to take your hand out of his as soon as possible and not meet his eyes. They are very dark, burning and guarded, and you hurriedly turn to Phil.

He is leaning on a cane but even with a limp he moves flamboyantly and dashingly. You are having a revelation that you don't like blonde men and smile to him widely. He pulls your hand to his lips, and you chuckle. There is light-heartedness in his theatrics. He is also playing mickey, going slowly and keeping eye contact with you. He doesn't know it but it allows you to suppress your first startled jerk, and when he finally presses your knuckles to his lips, you lift one brow sarcastically.

"Enchante, Wren," he purrs, and receives a smack to the back of his head from John. "Uncle! I was just being gallant!"

"I am not being territorial, I'm freezing. You are holding us all back in this Baltic weather," John's tone is fake grumpy. You give him a disbelieving look and suddenly hear your own voice.

"He can take his time, I don't mind." Both men laugh, and John quickly kisses your cheek.

"Wren, your company is worth a few frost bites," Phil offers the next daft line, and you laugh.

John leans in to your ear and whispers theatrically, "Don't listen to the plonker, he is such a butterfly, he'll forget your name tomorrow, I am not even jealous." You roll your eyes, suppressing a smile, their frolics are light, ridiculous and seem to be their habitual behaviour, and everyone is finally going up to John's flat.

There is a new table and chairs in his living room. The table is served, you are having Italian, Southern if your nose is not lying, and everyone is loudly arguing who sits where, everyone being Phil, John and Dea, while you and Killian are just standing near the table silently. He is staring somewhere over your shoulder at the wall, your eyes dart between the Thoringtons. At some point you feel Killian's stare on your cheek, and you turn. Unlike other people, and you have by now learnt social cues, he doesn't look away, your eyes meet, and he is openly studying you. He is tense, and you notice that his hands are shaking. He understands you see it and pushes them deeply into his denim pockets. He looks so much like John at that moment that you quickly turn away. While Phil's features are reminiscent of John's more, Killian definitely has a lot of the same temperament. Seeing his dark, intense disposition makes you wonder whether John would have become the same, had the circumstances differed and had he not been working hard on his psychological health.

"Wren?" Apparently John has been addressing you for a while. You jerk and look at him. He is smiling to you softly, "Where do you want to sit?" Suddenly everyone is looking at you, and you feel mildly panicked. You take a discreet deep breath in and meet his eyes. It helps, and you point at a chair facing away from the kitchen. You'd prefer not to sit your back to the entrance door, it makes you uncomfortable. Your decision seems to please everyone, and finally you are seated.

The conversation jumps between John's work, Phil's new car that he can't drive because of his injury, but somehow that doesn't seem to upset him, he explains to you that it's a Corvette and it's all about the roar, to which Killian almost unnoticeably rolls his eyes, and then somehow the discussion shifts onto the topic of traveling. You feel rather comfortable with it, you have no personal experience but plenty of knowledge. Dea and her sons have just returned from Brazil, after visiting Mae, which you initially thought was John's mum's name, but later turned out to be just "mother" in Portuguese. Lydia Thorington, nee Amadori, apparently insists on being called Mae by all family members, and Phil jokes that if you don't want to unleash her half-Italian temper you'll follow everyone's example. You didn't know there was any Italian blood mixed in all this Northern DNA.

While leading a polite conversation and consuming Tiella Barese, you are making several conclusions. Firstly, nothing in this world can rattle Phil, he has processed your presence in their life in the first ten seconds of seeing you, and now you are just another family member. He is absorbed in his conversation with John, he is also inconsiderate, he keeps on pouring wine in your glass, without looking, which John discreetly drinks, you actually in awe from his skills. He manages to rotate the glasses between the two of you so it looks like you are drinking, he keeps everyone's plates full without pushing food onto people, he brings new platters seemingly without interrupting the conversation.

Your second observation is that Dea is studying you, but she keeps herself in check. Initially you think it has to do with her overall mellowness, she quite obviously has little energy left, but on the other hand she did pretty much invite herself to this dinner, although John did try to avoid giving you this impression. She is checking on him, making sure that you are not disastrous for him, and you are almost certain she's been sent by Mae Thorington. At some point Dea lets it slip that Mae mentioned talking to John about you, you freeze with the fork mid-air, and Dea tenses from her slip and quickly changes the topic of the conversation. You understand that Dea is being delegated to gather data and report, and as much as she is uncomfortable with it, she nonetheless has complies. That tells you as much about her as it tells you about Mae. You stuff a forkful of Ciamotta into your mouth and pretend you are not bricking it.

Also, you suspect that John had a talk with Dea before they came here. You are sure he didn't mention your history or anyhow disclosed anything that you would be uncomfortable to do yourself, but you can see how sometimes Dea throws cautious looks at him. You can guess she'd prefer to interrogate you, and you quickly imagine a one-way glass and yourself handcuffed to a table, and you feel like sticking a tongue at her. You are doing well, but you are still grateful to John. You feel cherished and respected. He took care of you without being overbearing or overstepping boundaries, and you concentrate on enjoying your food.


	54. Chapter 54

After a while you excuse yourself and rush to the loo. You pull out your notes from the latest session with Dr. Coutts and skim through them. You seem to be doing well, and you lean on the wall and breathe out.

You splash some cold water on your face, and then a barmy idea comes to your mind. You can stay here tonight, you can spend the night with John. Several possible scenarios rush through your mind, you take a deep breath to halt your overzealous intellect, and ground yourself. John might have different plans, he might not be in the mood. You shortly wonder how one asks their boyfriend if he wants one to stay and potentially attempt to have some semblance of sex tonight. There must be some sort of protocol for that. You shortly think of googling it, and then remind yourself that you are being mental. You have only managed half a dinner, there is still dessert, coffee and potentially cheese plate, and you are allowing yourself to lose concentration. Once you survive the dinner, you will talk with John. You might not be in the mood yourself, you'll be tired and wound up. You return to the living room.

The conversation turns to you, and you are carefully answering questions about your work. Judging by the questions Dea and Phil ask, they do not know anything about you, and you once again feel pleased with John for not overprotecting you. At some point Phil asks you where you grew up, and you follow the script you have developed with Dr. Coutts. You don't lie but disclose very little. You are polite and nonchalant, you have practised, you feel rather confident because you have several stories prepared, nice ones, couple funny ones even, in case there is an exchange of childhood memories. John is resting his chin on steepled fingers, and to some he might seem relaxed and almost absent-minded, but you catch his eyes on you. You are telling Dea of how you spent a year in the country in a foster home once, it's a lovely, beautified anecdote, and then you realise that he is worried and is probably agonising over you being uncomfortable and even scared. You are not, but suddenly it becomes about his anxiety and not yours, Dea is talking about visiting that part of the country once, and you look at him over her shoulder and give him a small reassuring smile. It is an amazing feeling, to take care of someone else, to give them support and warmth they need at that moment, and you see him carefully exhale through slightly open lips. His eyes are grateful and loving, and you are flooded with piercing tenderness towards him.

Two hours later you are standing at John's balcony, taking large gulps of cold air. You have lasted through the dinner, you still have Baba and Carteddate ahead of you, and honestly only John can consume all that, and then coffee, and cheese, but you stayed in the living room without running out of it screaming, and that's a victory in your books.

There is small noise behind you, and Killian steps out into the balcony, an unlit fag in his hand, and you jump up and away from him.

"Bollocks, you freaked me out..." You are taking slow breaths in, your heart beating twice the normal speed, the good old buzzing in your ears. "You make me so bloody uncomfortable." You realise what you said the second it comes out of your mouth. You painfully bite into your bottom lip. Perhaps it's too early for you to go to public places. His face blanches. His jaw set, he flares his nostrils. He feels very dangerous at that moment, and you take a step back. Alarm is ringing in your mind with deafening urgency.

"And why is that?" His voice is a sneer through gritted teeth.

"You are so bloody fit. I'm not good with fit men." Dr. Coutts was wrong, you are not getting better at interacting with people. He freezes in his tracks and stares at you. And that's when you understand he thought you meant his history. It's almost funny, him having PTSD worries you least of all to be honest. And suddenly his face lights up with a smile. It's his first one this evening. He does indeed look like a different person right away. He is almost as good looking as his uncle at that moment. You remember the social cues you discussed with Dr. Coutts and smile back. You are sincere though, his white-toothed grin is sunny and irresistible.

"You are not so bad yourself," he answers and lights up his cig. "Want one?" You shake your head. He looks at you, his eyes narrowed to protect them from the smoke. He is holding his cigarette in a rounded hand, as if shielding it from the wind. You assume it's a service habit. "Poor Phil is in pain." You look at him confused. Is he referring to his brother's injury? "He's got a thing for redheads, and you are just his type, all small and wood nymph like. He'd never step on Uncle's territory obviously." You are staring at him agape, and he laughs. "You are endlessly unobservent, are you?" You nod, and he is studying you, smiling. "You are cool, though." That makes you close your mouth with a clank of teeth.

"You are not so bad yourself," you throw him his earlier remark back, and he blows out a ring of smoke, giving you a cheeky look from the corner of his eye. "OK, give me a bloody fag." He is laughing, and the two of you spend the next fifteen minutes smoking and looking at the night city. You don't talk, but it's amazingly comfortable.

"Time to stop hiding and go back," his voice is tense. You understand he wants to run. You've been there. To think of it you are still there.

"Well, you are in a better position than I am here," you mumble, and he looks down at you. He is not as tall as his uncle, but he is still towering over you. You've noticed he is standing rather close. You know it's an accomplishment for him, people must seem suffocating for him. "You know a whole bunch of embarrassing stories about everyone at that table. You can refer to them in your head. And I'm trying to impress your mum. I'm after all trying to seduce her innocent flower of a brother." He starts laughing loudly and pats your shoulder. You wonder when was the last time he even touched anybody voluntarily.

"Let's go in, Leary. We'll survive this dinner, and then I'll tell you a few of those embarrassing stories."


	55. Chapter 55

You return to the living room, John is standing in the door to the kitchen laughing at something Dea just said, she has the face of a person who pronounced a very good joke, Phil is stretching the hand towards John, with a dirty plate in it, and you step between them.

"Wait, I'll give you a hand," you say to John, pick up the plate and walk after him to the kitchen. You shove the plates on the counter and stare at his back. The cardigan is soft, he has beautiful straight shoulders, muscles are moving visibly even under the clothes.

Coffee is bubbling in a cezve on a stove, its gorgeous aroma floating in his kitchen, you step to the coffee jar, pick up a few beans and quickly chew them with a loud crunch. You need to get rid of the smoke, because you have something to say. John is placing the plates in the sink, you come up to him and touch his shoulder. And then you see a pot with Corsican mint on a shelf above his shoulder, and you pick up two bright leaves and stuff them into your mouth too. John turns around, and his eyebrows jump up. You probably look ridiculous, you quickly swallow, and suddenly everything is so clear and simple, that you pick up both of his hands, look in his eyes and say, "I love you."

His lips slightly open, and you've never seen him more beautiful. His eyes are shining, there is a smile dancing in his features, it is peeking from behind his wide open eyes and relaxed lips, and he slightly pulls you into him. You step closer, and he leans in. It is perfect, and you love him.

His lips touch yours tenderly, his breath is fluttering, and he is not diving into the kiss. He is balancing on its edge, as if savouring the moment, and you smile. He should be able to feel the movement of your lips.

"Wren… My Wren..." His whisper is warm, and you smile wider.

"I love you." You whisper too, you need to let it out, the words slip out of you with your breath, they are just as natural. His lips are still hovering over yours, hands stroke your shoulders, and you breathe in his fragrance.

"Wren..."

"I love you."

He bends down, and then the strange fragility of the moment is gone, you both feel it, you reach for his lips, he moves in as well. You kiss, and you arch, wrap your arms around his neck. His arms go around you, he presses you into him, in bone crushing embrace. You two are kissing passionately in the kitchen, and you think he mumbles "I love you" somewhere there, between the kisses, but you feel drunk, and happy, and turned on, and happy, so very happy, and he is breathing heavily under your hands, and he lifts you up and twirls you around the kitchen. You laugh, and then his kisses are quick and small and ridiculous, and he is laughing too.

"Coffee, mint and cigarettes… It's like kissing a French girl." You laugh louder.

"Have you ever?"

"Don't know, don't care, I like kissing _you_!" You two proceed to do exactly that, and then you remember you're not the only two people in the world. That might have been loud, not the proclamations, but the laughter, and of course it is not hard to guess what the two of you are doing here, and you cup his face.

"We need to go back to your guests." He comically wrinkles his nose.

"But I want to talk about kissing," he whispers conspiratorially, "I want to kiss about kissing to be precise."

"That's semantically incorrect," you giggle.

"But endlessly true." He kisses the tip of your nose. "I'm thinking they should go. None of them likes dessert anyroad." You giggle again and then skew your eyes on the coffee. The foam is dangerously close to the rim.

"Your coffee will escape. You are overheating the beans."

"Yes, I am," he wiggles his eyebrows, and you snort.

"Duffus." He is grinning from ear to ear, and then there is a knock at the door frame, and you two turn. Killian is standing in the doors, and you see the second smile in the course of the evening to decorate his face.

"Mum was wondering whether we are having coffee, and Phil is making suggestive remarks. I personally don't want pudding and prefer to go home now." His eyes shift at yours, and you understand that the smile is for you. You give him one back, and you feel John shift under your hands splayed on his chest.

"We are having coffee and pudding, and you are helping me with plates. And then you can go get your kip." He lets you go and hands a platter with Babas to Killian. Killian turns and then suddenly winks to you. You chuckle and then catch John's eyes. His are warm and tender, and then he turns to Killian. Thoringtons are the first proper family you have met in your life, and as dysfunctional as any family is, you suddenly realise you are glad that you get to spend time with this one. Killian is leaving the kitchen and slightly bumps his shoulder into John's, a small smirk grazing his lips, and John makes a miniscule movement, as if leaning his head to Killian's, and it's fascinating. It is natural, and warm, and loving, in a complicated mature way. You were right, they are very much alike, and they do understand each other. Whatever they have gone through, some sort of genuine kinship seems to have been born out of all the pain. Killian disappears towards the living room, and John makes a giant step across the kitchen and kisses you quickly but firmly. Then he pushes a tray with cups into your hands.

The five of you have surprisingly calm rest of the dinner, talking about Davis Cup, and then you find yourself and Killian sort of separate from the rest of them, arguing about the Chelyabinsk meteor. Apparently, Tesla is Killian's hobby, and he is quoting numbers and data pertaining to the Tunguska Event, comparing the two. Several minutes later the two of you notice that the rest of them are staring at you, Dea is even holding her breath, and Killian immediately retreats into himself, and topples his cup quickly into his throat.

"We should go," his voice is scratchy, in a drastic contrast to how animated it was just a few seconds ago. Everyone starts rising, chair legs scraping on the floor, and after they dress quickly, Killian and Dea say hurried goodbyes.

Some strange emotions flash in Dea's eyes when she looks at you. She stretches her hand to you, you shake it, and you feel her fingers tremble, she seems to be keeping your palm in hers for just one second longer than just in a neutral gesture of goodbye. Killian has already gone downstairs, after a short nod. He is catching a cab, and Dea follows. Phil is still struggling with his jacket, balancing his cane, and you turn to John and smile to him. His eyes are brilliant, and his cheekbones are flushed. You could attribute it to the wine he drank for the two of you, but something tells you that's not the reason.


	56. Chapter 56

Phil straightens up, and you hand him his scarf, a wide white toothed grin adorns his face, and suddenly he grabs your wrist.

"Mum will never say it, but thank you." His voice is sincere, but it's hard for you to listen, you are tense from the feeling of his hand's grip. Your body goes rigid, you are endlessly uncomfortable, and you start pulling your hand slowly out of the ring of his strong fingers. He has masculine, attractive hands, long fingers, and it's not cold or clammy, but you feel your throat constricting from acute aversion. "I mean, you seem to click with Killi, and it's so rare..." You lift your eyes to him and try to smile, you are surprised he can't feel how much you are shaking. He is pulling you towards him, and you resist. "Oh, common, we are family now, come here..." He pulls you into him, and it's like an ice bucket over your head. Your body is frozen, your ears are ringing, and he puts the second arm around your shoulder. He is very warm as well, his elegant citrusy cologne hits your nose, a blond curl brushes your nose. Acute suffocating panic floods you, and then he releases you. You drop your eyes to the floor, and he is leaving, John pats his shoulder and starts locking the door. You can't believe it, you realise he didn't notice.

You understand it, they are all attuned to Killian's behaviour, he seemed OK tonight, and the evening went well, and John is distracted, but it is shocking for you that he doesn't understand how freaked out you are. You were forced into physical contact, with a male no less, you still can feel Phil's fingers as if burning into the skin of your wrist, his second forearm pressed to your nape caused a flood of intrusive memories. John turns to you, and you suddenly realise that despite the panic, you still have the capacity to keep your face in check. You quickly excuse yourself and rush to the bathroom.

You slam the door behind you and slide on the floor. You've been in this very situation before, in this very bathroom, you had a meltdown, the same memories thrashing in your head, your foster father's arm around your shoulder, around your neck, your heart is beating faster and faster, it's hard to breathe again.

And at the same time you understand you can stop this, you now have the ability to bring yourself down from the panic attack, and you just have to make this choice. It is an odd state, you are going through an anxiety but at the same time you are not. All the symptoms are here, but you feel disconnected from them.

And still, oddly enough panic seems like a safer option, it's familiar, this is who you have been for sixteen years, a person who suffocates on a bathroom floor from being touched. It used to determine you, frame you, give you meaning, give you path. Poor little Wrennie, victim of childhood abuse. There is a knock at the door.

"Wren, are you OK?"

You can continue gasping on the floor. Or you can gather some wits and tell him you are not. He will rush to you, he will ask for your consent before touching your shoulder, he will kneel in front of you. You will let him hug you, rock you gently from side to side, his warm soft whisper, comforting thing, his large hot palm will stroke your hair, the scorching heat of his body soothing your raw nerves. Or you can choose another path.

"I'm fine, I'll be out in a moment," your voice sounds absolutely normal.

"Wren, I have a call to make, I'll be in the bedroom. Feel free to intrude," there is a chuckle in his tone, and you confirm with an "uh-huh".

He leaves, and you try to get up. Your knees are not shaking. It is a strange feeling, as if you are standing up for the first time. You feel stable, your limbs feel strong, and you step to the mirror. You are pale, your pupils are dilated, and you are staring at your freckles. You didn't slip, it didn't escalate. You touch your lips, it is so strange to see them, they are not trembling. You are fine. You are actually fine.

You wash your hands in pleasantly warm water, fix your hair and step out of the bathroom. You can't believe it, you did it, he doesn't even have to know, you feel so proud of yourself that you are grinning from ear to ear.

John is talking on the phone, his voice is loud and angry. You freeze a few steps from the door, you might still be intruding, he apparently didn't anticipate where the conversation would take him. You understand he is talking to Jimmy, Thea mentioned the latter being stressed out these days, he apparently arsed up some of the preparations still in Egypt, and something hasn't been delivered in time for the exhibition.

"I can't guarantee the safety of these objects now, Jimmy," John's tone is menacing, low and hollow, and then he listens to something the person says on the other end. "Nor will I be responsible for how it proceeds." You slowly enter the room and see him by the window. One hand with his mobile to his ear, he is cradling its elbow with the second arm, folded on his chest in the familiar gesture. He is livid. The lips are set in a stern line, eyes dark, eyebrows frowned. There is anger and danger boiling in him, and you stop and chew on your bottom lip.

Something Jimmy says irks him even more, "Jimmy! It matters. I want to know - why didn't you come back? You were supposed to check, to double check..." You can hear Jimmy's distressed voice, and John growls. It is a low rumbly noise in his chest, and you make a step back. He lifts his eyes and notices you. You have never seen him like that. You make convulsive vague gestures with flailing arms, that are supposed to signify that you don't want to interrupt and you will be in the kitchen, and you flee.

You tuck yourself on one of the stools, but then you think that you could actually clean up. It is his flat, and you are not sure whether that would be overstepping some boundaries, but you did help him during dinner, it might be fine. You start putting dishes into the sink, and after some hesitation you open one of the cupboards looking for tupperware when you feel his presence behind you.

He is standing in the doorframe, his hands deep in the pockets of his dark denim. You get up with a plastic container in your hand, and it feels like you are seeing him in the first time, or after a long break, but nonetheless much more clearly than before. You see a strong authoritative man, somewhat harsh, somewhat inflexible, irritable, impatient. This is not the John you are accustomed to, not the person you have had to deal with this whole time.


	57. Chapter 57

"I thought I'd help you clean up..." Your voice is small, and you lift the tupperware in your hand. "Should I make tea? I mean, it's late, I can call a cab..."

He is studying you, and then sighs heavily, "Tea sounds good." He sits at the counter and you put a kettle on the stove. You are rather making yourself at home, but it gives you a chance to turn your back to him and gather your thoughts. You think he might want to do it too. It's almost funny, nothing happened, but you think you both know that something did.

"You don't frighten me," you don't know where the words come from, but you turn and look at him firmly. "I mean, I understand you censor your behaviour for my sake, and it's... nice of you, but I can handle… the reality." He is watching you talk, his eyebrows slightly frowned, and he is slowly twirling a tea spoon in his fingers.

"I don't censor my behaviour with you. I am honest when I am with you. I just don't want you to see me when I am..."

"With others?" You offer, and he nods. "That's impossible, you do realise that, right? We will have to interact with other people. I mean, you invited me to a pub with your friends..."

"That would be friends, that's different," his tone is dark, "You don't need to see me when I'm pissed off at my colleague." You understand his desire to compartmentalize his life, but you have given it a thought while cleaning up the dirty dishes just now. You don't think it's a good idea. You understand where it comes from, but he is wrong.

"John, how is it going to work in your opinion? Are you planning to see me only when you are chuffed and everything goes well at work?" Your tone is sarcastic, "I do understand you are a human being, and I'm much better with handling negative emotions these days, and as long as you don't break furniture in front of me..."

"I used to," he interrupts you, and his jaw clenches. He is taking a few measured breaths in and goes on, "I used to break furniture, and dishes, and scream, I have never hit anyone but I was bloody close. Wren, it's not about you having some past issues, it's me protecting you from myself. I mean, even if you didn't have your history, I would treat any woman who would be with me the same way."

You sit on a stool across the counter from him and lock your fingers. Now it's your turn to study him, his teeth are clenched, there are knots of muscles on his jaw, he looks guilty and frustrated, and you quickly cover his hands with yours.

"When was the last time that you had an episode?" He closes his eyes and exhales sharply.

"Nineteen months ago." So he is still counting, it means the acceptance hasn't settled in yet. "Wren, I told you, I'm not violent, and I have never been, but the possibility was there… And I feel guilty sometimes, that I even started it with you..." That makes you freeze.

"What?"

"I am very mellow on everyday basis, I swim, I do yoga, I jog, I meditate… But I know what I'm capable of," he pulls his hands from under your palm, "And for you that would be the worse. If I snap, you'd have the worst possible experience. The person you trusted and felt comfortable around… The person you..."

"Love," you finish his phrase. You have told him you love him. He blanches and rubs his face with his palms.

"I need to be careful..." He is talking to himself.

"No, you don't." Your tone is surprisingly assured, and he drops his hands to look at you. You are staring at your hands, his eyes would distract you, you need to concentrate. "I don't want you to. I don't need you to. I don't want… a part of you. Just the calm, comfortable you, who is in a good mood, and..." You lift your eyes at him, his are pained and uncertain. "If we are doing it, we are doing it right. I respect it if you want to be on your own, no one should be forced into human interaction, but if you are frustrated or angry or upset and _want _to talk, you should be able to talk to me. I can handle it."

"And if I feel like breaking furniture?" He is playing devil's advocate. He is trying to frighten you and manipulate you into agreeing with his point of view, and you don't like it. You feel it's some sort of a Rubicon, and you need to make a precise and definitive stance here that will determine where you are going from here on.

"Then I'll break up with you. Because I am not dating a person who isn't smart and strong enough to stay healthy." He frowns more, his lips set in a distressed line. "If you need help, I'll try to do my best, and I will be there for you. But if you decide to stop fighting and just give in and break furniture and act like an idiot, I'll leave. It will be my choice, but I don't want a half-boyfriend." You are looking him directly in the eyes, and you see the exact moment when he gets it. His face softens, and he opens up his palms on the table. You are waiting for his response before giving him your hands.

"Thank you," his voice is calm and even, as it always is, and you tilt your head questioningly, "For trusting me, and for reminding me what's the point of getting better." You place your fingers on his palms, and he gently holds them in his hands.

His hands are warm and familiar, and you exhale with relief. You pull at his hands, he moves in, and you kiss over the counter. It's clumsy but you still enjoy it immensely. The kettle whistles, and he chuckles shakily into your lips.

"I'll make it," his voice is soft, and you let go of his hands. He quickly arranges a sugar bowl, milk and spoons on the table, you are watching his fluid, graceful movements. Everything is precise, but there is this laziness you noticed at the very beginning, he is always savouring sensations, tastes, textures. You think you understand him better now, for him it's about enjoying the instant, he is purposefully grounding himself in every little detail, processing reality step by step, to control his temper, to stay in the moment. It has a side effect of giving an almost musical rhythm to the movement of his fingers, his heavy wide body is almost dancing, and you realise you are indeed ogling him. He puts a mug in front of you and pauses after meeting your eyes.

"Wren?"

"Can I take your photo some time later?" You have dreamt about it for a while, but you are nervous. He'd be the first person you would shoot for yourself, not for work.

His eyebrows jump up. He is standing close, and you still need to drop your head back a bit to look into his face. He has a slightly amused surprise written all over his face. "Why? I mean, yeah, if you feel like it… But you do know you can have the live version at all times..." He is purring by the end of this statement, leaning down, and you chuckle. You tentatively wrap one arms around his neck, he has bent enough for it by now, and you pull him to your lips.

"I do."


	58. Chapter 58

The two of you have forgotten about the tea. You are very actively copping off, first he is uncomfortably bent, looming over you, then he places one hand on the counter on your side, the other one is on your jaw, and he slightly tilts your face.

"Alright?" He rasps out, that is the most controlling gesture he has made so far, and you smile into his eyes and nod. You love his scorching skin on yours, and it isn't a bit scary, it's thrilling.

He proceeds kissing you, and then he steps closer. You spread your knees allowing him closer. He once again asks if you are fine with it, but it comes out more as a choked mumble. You understand the meaning though, and you hum appreciatively into his neck you are currently kissing. It took a small moment of mental preparation, you paused in the middle of a kiss, he stayed still, and then you moved your mouth onto the pulse on his throat. The stools are tall, his neck is finally at your disposal, and he drops his head back, and there is this low rumbling noise in his chest again. His beard is fascinating, you like the bottom edge of it, on his throat, and you hesitantly run the pulps of your fingers along it, and then your lips. He gasps, and suddenly he twists and catches your mouth in a very heated kiss.

He presses into you firmer, his second hand lies on the counter, he is caging you, your fingers are buried in his hair, and a small feeling of alarm is mildly scraping at your mind. You are restricted, and you won't last long, although right now you are still enjoying it. He is moaning into your mouth and then suddenly grinds his hips into you. You gasp and jolt, and his lips are still sliding along your jaw, but then it reaches his brain, and you feel his shoulders shake under your palms. His body goes rigid, like a moment before a jump into cold water, and then he jerks back, in a strange convulsive movement, and makes a step back from you. He looks at you and then turns away sharply. You assume you are flushed, your hair is a mess, and your lips are swollen. Even you understand how little such picture helps to reign an arousal.

He suddenly makes a wide stride towards the sink, in a jerky movement that looks astonishingly uncoordinated, especially for him he opens the cold water tap fully and sticks his head under it. Water flies everywhere, you feel drops on your face, and he makes a low distressed noise. You are staring at him. He is gritting his teeth, you can actually hear it, you assume the water is glacial. He keeps himself bent in this torturous position, water drumming at the back of his head, for a few seconds.

He straightens up, and water is running down his dark strands. He blindly closes the tap and brushes the hair off his face. It reminds you of how you saw him for the first time. Your mind does that thing that is usually ascribed to female minds by chauvinistic psychologists. Your thoughts jump from the current situation to the past, and you quickly think of how far you have come from that day, and how much the two of you have achieved, and how happy you are he is in your life. He looks endlessly cheesed off, there is water dripping on his fancy cardigan, he looks as if he is irritated at you, and your first reaction is to assume that he indeed is, but you have gone a long way from the girl who opened the door to her bathroom to find an almost starkers, fit bloke there.

You were going to talk to him over breakfast, you have envisioned it very clearly, how you two will wake up together, if of course you stay, you would be sleeping in the galabeya he gave you, you both will take a shower, and will be eating, and will be relaxed, and then you will talk to him about your plan. But he is standing in front of you, his hair is wet, he is breathing heavily, and he is so gorgeous and sexy, and you love him, and you jump off the chair, rush to him and hide your face in his chest. You grab him around his middle, press him into you, and he lets you, his arms hanging passively along his body, you can hear the drumming of his heart, it must feel almost painful, it's frantic and loud, and you breathe in his smell.

"I want to try to have sex."

Your phrase is hanging in the air, and he just went from passive and frustrated to rigid and shocked. You understand that your voice was too mundane, almost robotic, but you said exactly what you wanted. At the moment you find him endlessly attractive, kissing on that stool made you aroused, and it's a good moment. You do understand it sounds very clinical but you have your reasons.

"Wren..." His tone is doubtful, he starts moving away, and you don't let him, your arms tight around him.

"I don't feel pressured into it, I am not doing it for you, I'm not doing it because I think you are expecting it or to make you less uncomfortable. I want it." Your tone is firm, but he is obviously not convinced.

You step away from him, grab his hand and start pulling him to his bedroom. He is not moving and of course you can't drag him. It's like trying to pull a lorry by a string. You turn around and give him a stare.

"John, I need you to go with me right now, sit down and listen to me." He blinks twice, the same shocked blink of his, and finally starts walking. He is moving mechanically, as if against his will, and finally the two of you are in his bedroom.

"Don't," you stop him when he reaches for a nightlight, and he freezes. You quickly climb on his bed and pat the covers near you. "Please, it will be easier for me if it's not too much light."

You can see his silhouette, there is enough light coming from the streetlamp outside, through his venetian blinds, and you shortly admire the wide shoulders and the set of his head.

He carefully sits on the edge of the bed and wipes his face and musses his hair. Your eyes get accustomed to twilight very quickly, and you see how agitated his face is. He is also silent which tells you how freaked out he actually is. You are almost grateful he is, to be honest, you need to tell him what you think.

"John, I gave it a lot of thought, and I think we shouldn't wait till I am comfortable with taking off my clothes and you seeing and touching my body, which is very important and we will get there, but at this stage I think we need to divide and conquer, so my idea is we should just do it pretty much fully clothed to get rid of this aspect, and then we can proceed to the rest." You sound like a robot, the speech is well prepared, you have had this plan for a while. Your nails are digging into your palms, and you are holding your breath. You bite into your bottom lip and wait for his response.


	59. Chapter 59

There is pure and utter shock on his face. His lips slightly open, and he is staring at you with rounded eyes.

"I'm sorry… I think, I need a moment to process this," his voice is raspy, and you nod. He sits a bit further on the bed and folds his arms on his chest in a clearly defensive gesture.

"John, you have to tell me what you are thinking..."

"I am stumped. I can't describe it anyhow differently. What you are offering, it's very..."

"Odd?"

"Clinical. Just like you said. I mean, Wren, it feels like you are pressured into it and just want to get over with it. We don't have to..."

"We do!" You raise your voice, and his eyebrows jump up. "I mean… I don't know how to explain it to you in any other words. It's just to have proper intimacy we will have to go a long way. I hate my body, my scars, your body will probably frighten me, I won't be able to be on the bottom, there are hundreds of things that can go wrong. And if at the same time I'm also terrified of potential pain and it's my first time, and your penis will be inside me..." You choke on your words, and he is attentively looking at you. He is frowning, and you think he might be clenching his jaw. Because of the dim light, some unusual shadows lie on his face, and you are not a hundred percent sure you are interpreting his expression right, but the twilight allows you speak more freely.

There is a long pause, he is pondering it, you are regulating your breathing.

"Are you certain it's the best way to go for you, Wren? Have you talked to your therapist about it?"

"She told me to do what feels natural and right. This feels right."

"Does it feel natural?" He sounds lost and uncertain, and you pull your knees to your nose. You are drawing patterns on his quilt with your index finger.

"There is nothing natural in being an overeducated twenty six year old virgin. I probably know about sex more than you do, and it's all in theory, and it's honestly the worst..." You gulp, "Believe, you don't want to have photographic memory when it comes to porn."

"Porn?" He couldn't sound more shocked.

"Well, it was more of mild erotica, but there was an ejaculation featured there." He groans and pushes his hand in his hair. It's wet, and he stares at it in shock, drops are still falling off the ends. He pushes both hands in it then, trying to bring some sort of order into it and shake the water out of it. You think you need to bring up more arguments.

"Think about it, in the course of our dating we have gone as far as taking off my sweater. It feels like we are thirteen, but we aren't. I want to have healthy sex with you, but if we continue slowly building up openness and intimacy between us we'll be able to have penetrative sex in about thirteen months. I want to get there faster." You have practised this speech yesterday in front of a mirror. With him sitting and staring at you agape, it suddenly doesn't seem rational and thought through like it did yesterday, and it now sounds as if you are trying to sell him subscription on a travel journal. He is still sitting on the other end of the bed, and you are running out of courage.

"John, please, can you help me a bit?" Your voice is small and suddenly shaky, and he blinks and shakes off his stupour. He moves closer, and then he puts both his hands on your shoulders and gently strokes.

"Wren, I honestly don't know… I will do anything you want, but it all sounds… You just said 'penetrative sex,' like it's a manual for a chair from IKEA, it doesn't sound like… like making love..." His voice wavers, and you think you understand his aggravation. You move into him and wrap your arms around his middle. He gently puts his hand at the back of your head, and you nuzzle his neck.

"It's still us, you and I. It's just... it will be painful and scary and I don't want to start like we had before, in your bed, and I will feel wonderful, and turned on, and tingly like I felt in the kitchen just now, and then it will all get arsed up. I want to be done with the scary part, and then we will start learning the nice stuff… I still can't take off my shirt in front of you, but I want to, I want to be comfortable with you, and with the actual sex out of the way…" He is hugging you, his nose in your hair, and then he sighs heavily.

"OK," his answer is quiet but firm. "We'll do it your way." You move away from him and start climbing off the bed. "Wren, where are you going?"

"I have Durex in my handbag, I bought some last week..." He stretches his hand to you, and brushes your wrist, but doesn't grip it. You remember Phil's grasp and note that John's touch doesn't feel any different from his previous ones although you were worried the memories of Phil's fingers would mar the skin there. You are very pleased, not only you didn't lose control but you also seem to have gone through this experience unscarred, figuratively speaking. You understand you got distracted.

"Wren, I do have Durex in here, and honestly, if you make me immediately put it on without at least one kiss we might have some problems with the mechanics of penetrative sex." His tone is half joking, half frustrated, and you freeze one foot off his bed. You were so preoccupied with the solution oriented approach to sex that you forgot what it is all about.

You climb back on the bed, sit near him and curl into his arms. He pulls you closer, and you stroke his chest. And then you open one of the toggle buttons. He tenses, and you giggle. He is right, you have approached it as if assembling furniture. He is now worried you are going to command him to undress and perform. You unbutton one more, and push a hand under his cardigan. The tee underneath is soft, and you splay your fingers on his pectoral muscle. A ridiculous thought comes that perhaps you need to seduce him. It is funny, in all possible ways.

"When we are finally naked in bed, I want to have a good look at your tattoos." You murmur, and he chuckles. There is relief in his voice.

"I want to see yours too. Was that a dandelion on your back?"

"Uh-huh, and a wren on the instep of my right foot." He picks up your left hand and turn it gently, there is a tattoo of an arrow across the inside of your wrist. He lifts it to his lips, his beard tickles your skin. "Arrow is for protection. And a reminder."

"Of what?" He whispers into your skin. You cup his face and make him look in your eyes.

"Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal / The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way..." Your voice is not shaking, you are certain he knows the quote, and he nods.

"Even to-day your royal head may fall / I think I will not hang myself to-day." His voice is soft, and he kisses you ardently.

**A/N: The quote is from "A Ballade of Suicide" ****by G.K. Chesterton**


	60. Chapter 60

**A/N: ****My darlings****, brace yourselves, the next few chapters are a wild ride :) **

**This one is a build-up, and then I'll post three at once, since I am not that cruel as to leave you hanging in the middle of what is coming ;)**

Some sort of decisive energy wakes up in you, you are kissing him, nipping on his bottom lip, you brush your tongue on it afterwards, your hands are roaming his torso, and then you jerk the buttons and push the cardigan off his shoulders. He is more hesitant, his hands are stroking your shoulder blades, he is holding himself back.

"John?.." He hums questioningly into your mouth, "You need to help me here… I have no idea what I'm doing." He shakes the cardigan off, still not tearing his lips from yours, and then he tenderly puts his hands on your ribs.

"You need to move closer, Wren..." His voice is coarse, and you put your hands on his shoulders. He pulls you to him and on his lap, and your legs go around his waist. That causes so many different sensations in your body and mind at once that you gulp air with an open mouth and then drop your head on his shoulder. He stills, letting you recover, one of his hands splayed on your back, another one on your waist.

"Wren, should we stop?" You shake your head, still pressing your forehead to him. You can feel the heat coming from his skin through the tee.

"I'm OK, it's just a lot to process..." You push away from him and look into his face. "I didn't expect to feel so... open."

"Open?" He leans in and softly brushes his lips to your cheek.

"Yes, spread, open, you are wide and my hips are open..." He gives it a thought.

"You'll probably feel safer if I lie down, and you sit on me. You've done it before." You nod. "And, Wren..." His voice dips lower, and you feel goosebumps run down your spine. "We can stop, whenever you want, you are in full control here. And I do want it..." He tenderly kisses your lips. "In case you doubted." You smile shakily.

"I don't. I can feel that you do want it." It is true, his erection is pressing into your thigh, and it is hot even through his denim. He gives you a soft smile.

"Yes, but that is my constant state around you. I mean I want you, now. And I love you." He is looking into your face, his eyes warm and calm. You exhale, strange buzzing agitation in you ebbing, though it doesn't disappear completely.

"You should lie down."

He leans back on the bed, you are sitting on his thighs, you squeeze your eyes, and take a few breaths in. And then you exhale sharply, open your eyes and unzip his fly. His whole body jerks on the bed.

"God, Wren, you should give me a bit of a warning here." You are starting to shake. His hands are passively lying on the quilt. "And the belt goes first." You stare at the buckle. "I can do it myself..." You nod. You are increasingly more scared, you just want to be done with it. He opens the buckle, the denim shifts, and you can see a narrow triangle of his underwear. It is some dark colour and checkered. There is a small button on it, and somehow it throws you off.

You are staring at the small plastic circle, and suddenly you understand the absurdity of what you two are doing. You are not ready, you're an idiot, you are ugly and skinny and worthless and he is doing it out of pity. You scamper off him, flailing your arms, it feels like some sort of mechanism that was regulating your coordination conked out, and all your extremities move in convulsive zigzags, you jerk away and fall off the bed backwards. Your spine painfully hits the wooden floorboards, and you yelp. He is immediately nearby, his hands on your upper arms, and you whimper and try to shy away from him.

"I'm OK, I'm OK, I just need a mo..." You are taking loud raspy breaths in, and he looks gutted.

"Wren, I knew it was a wrong idea! We can't do it that way..."

"I am OK..."

"You are not!" He almost yells, and you wince away from him. He has never raised his voice at you before. "Wren, you are scared, you are not turned on, it will hurt more this way. And you will never want this again." That makes you halt and look at him. "Do you think you are the only one who did some research?! I knew you were a virgin, and I have thought about it! Damn it, Wren!" He is still louder than usual, there is harshness to his voice, and muscle knots are moving on his jaw. "It is your body, your choice, but damn it, I'm not brutalising you even if you are asking me to."

"I got scared of the button," your voice is small and squeaky, and now it's his turn to pause and stare at you.

"What?"

"You have a button on your pants. It threw me off. Why would you need a button there?" His jaw is slowly slacking. "I mean... I immediately started thinking that you probably open it for something, and I was thinking that it's so different from us, because we need to take knickers off, while you apparently open some sort of a slit, and then I wondered about the mechanics of it, and imagined a penis being taken out through it, and then I remembered that there is a penis there, and it needs to go into me, and then I remembered all possible facts I know about it, and how loaded the whole penetrative sex question is, and the social, anthropological and religious aspects of it, and I do have an IQ of 165 at least, and I have photographic memory, and if I remember what I know, it's a lot to remember, because I have this encyclopedia in my head, it all just flooded my brain, and because I'm anxious I am losing control over my mind, and why would you even want to do all this complicated stuff with me, and the question of sex appeal is also predominantly socially determined these days, and I..." You finally manage to shut your gob, literally by pressing both hands over it, you are breathing heavily and shaking so hard that to you it looks like he is jumping on his knees in front of you.

"Fuck me," he deadpans and drops on his backside near you on the floor. Apparently while talking you managed to squeeze yourself between his bed and a bookshelf, your knees at your nose.

"I am planning to," apparently your sense humour that you discovered a few months ago has a very bad timing. He doesn't seem to appreciate it, judging by a dark face and tense shoulders. You drop your forehead on your knees and bring your mind onto your breathing.

**A cheeky A/N: But you will review each chapter separately, right? :P **

**I just really want to hear the running commentary on what will be in the next chapters, since writing them was such an emotional experience *shy shuffling of a foot on the floor***


	61. Chapter 61

"OK, Wren," his tone is cold and firm, "We are not doing it your way." You lift your face and look at him. "We need to find another way." You chew on your lip and open your mouth. "Please, shut up. I'm going to explain something to you." He sits up straighter and leans his back on the bed, his long legs stretched in front of him.

"Sex is not a competitive sport, Wren. It's not about the result. It is actually as corny as it sounds about the process." He is pensive for a moment, you wrap your arms around your knees tighter. "We can do it the way you wanted, in clothes and not stretching it, but no way in hell we are doing it mechanically and when you are bricking it. We can discuss it now, or get up and have some tea, but that's it." He is calm, collected, but you feel something is off.

You are shaking, your teeth are almost chattering, but suddenly you understand that he is more important at the moment than your anxiety. You clench your jaw so hard that you can hear your teeth grind, you need to do it in order to make your muscles move, but you push yourself, and you crawl up to him on all four. He is almost immobile, except his eyes are following your movement, guarded and expressionless, and you sit near him on your knees.

"I'm sorry," you voice breaks, but you don't let yourself cry. It's your fault, you have no right to fall apart right now.

"For what?" His eyebrows slightly twitch, and he is studying you.

"I was… insensitive. First, I was cold and... now I'm thinking it almost felt like I was using you. Like it was your job to do it, and then... I was placing the responsibility on you. And then… I freaked out, and you had to deal with it."

"Wren, you don't have to..." He is trying to reassure you, of course he does, he seems to always have to do it, but you interrupt.

"John, please, don't defend me." He once said the same to you, during the very first night, but it wasn't his fault that time either. "I was wrong, and… I am sorry." You move a bit closer to him and put your hand on his forearm. "And you are right, this is not how it has to be done." You are waiting for him to say something, but he is silent. You ground yourself, you don't let yourself panic, you need him to hear you and to let you know if he is OK, it is not about your freaking out right now, and then he sighs and nods.

"OK, Wren." You exhale and move closer to him. He is slightly frowning, as if in confusion, and you think he assumed you would get up now, that it would be the end, but you think it can actually be the beginning. You carefully climb on his lap, he is still and rigid, and then you once again spread your knees, place each one of them on the side of his body, and you gently place your hands on his shoulders.

"I forgot the main thing… But now I remember..." You whisper, and then you slowly lean in and kiss the corner of his lips. He is silently studying your face. You kiss the same spot again, and then you shyly brush your nose on the underside of his jaw. You are hinting he should ask, and you see his lips twitching a shadow of a smile.

"Alright, Wren, what is the main thing?" You exhale and kiss his lips more freely.

"That there are two of us in it. And that it's not about a penis entering a vagina," you whisper, and he chuckles.

"I think I've heard the word 'penis' more times tonight than I normally hear in a year." You snort and kiss his earlobe. He softly exhales, and you rub your nose to his temple.

"Please, help me," you whisper in his ear, closing your eyes, it is very scary, but it's John, and you trust him, "Please, show me… I want you to show it to me now..." You can trust him, you love him, he will never let your down, and he slowly turns his head, he studies your face for a few seconds, and then his lips meet yours.

All his movements are slow and tender, and you feel like you are melting, all your skin flushed and tingly. He is softly kissing you, his hands meet on your shoulder blades, and he is stroking your back, from your nape down to your tailbone, and each caress is like the previous, there is a rhythm to them, and it is calming and reassuring, and you open your lips, letting his tongue in. He continues the strokes on your back, and then he leaves only one hand, his second on lies on the button on your trousers, and you tense.

"Shhh, love, calm down, I'm here," his voice is low and soft, and you feel his fingers open the button and pull the zipper down. You start shaking, you feel the tips of his fingers brush on the cotton on your knickers, and he whispers, "Concentrate on my hand, Wren, on the hand on your back, I'll do the rest, just breathe..." You press your forehead to his temple, close your eyes, and do as he told you. His hand is hot, its movements are unhurried, measured, loving. He slightly shifts and pulls a durex from the drawer of his bedside table. For that he needs to stretch, but his hand is going up and down, you are breathing industriously, and he returns to the previous position. He puts the square package near his thigh on the floor and then his hand abandons your back, his palms cup your face.

"Wren, look at me," you obediently open your eyes and exhale shakily. "Wren, we need to do this together, OK? We should only do it, if you want it. Do you want it, Wren?" You nod, you can't tear your eyes off his beautiful face, it is familiar and the most perfect face in the world, and you smile to him shakily.

"I want you, John." He leans in and tenderly kisses you. And then he gently picks you up and moves you away from him down his legs, closer to his knees, one of his hands lets go of your waist, and you try to shift to see what he is doing, but he doesn't let you. He cups the back of your head, and suddenly his kisses are more passionate, more demanding, and your head is spinning, you don't understand anything anymore, he takes his second hand off your face, but that's when his tongue dives into your mouth, and he runs in on the inside of your lips, and it is such a unrestricted sensual gesture that you moan and do not pay attention anymore. His hands return on you, they lie on your waist, and then he starts pushing your trousers down. You jerk, and he cups the back of your head again.

"We need to take them off, Wren." You blink, some sense returning to you but before you can form any sort of thought in your head, he pulls the quilt, the covers and the duvet from the bed, they fall around your bodies, there is a sheet as well, and all together the two of you are suddenly sitting in a heap of fabrics. "If you want it, only if you want it," his tone is soft, "You need to take off your trousers and knickers, but you can stay under the blankets."

You lunge at him, catching his mouth, to remind yourself of his taste, of the strange warm excitement that fills you when he touches you, to show him how much you appreciate what he is doing, how much you enjoy touching him, how much he matters, and you press your hands into his chest. He is scorching underneath, and you shortly wonder if you should ask him to take the tee off, but then you decide against it. A half naked male body will be a lot to process,you remember the muscles, the thick black chest hair, and you gulp and shift your palms back on his neck. Your thumbs brush his beard, and suddenly you smile.

"I love you," you sound almost surprised, and he smiles to you. You push your hands into the heap of the blankets, and then you shuffle and wiggle and take off pants and trousers, anything below your waist safely covered. You lower yourself on him again, and before you manage to get scared of the contact of your naked skin with his denim, he cups your face again. He quickly kisses your lips, then your jaw, little hot kisses trail down, on your neck, you tilt your head and moan, all your skin burning, your mind foggy and some sweet craving spreading through your body.


	62. Chapter 62

And then he whispers, "Wren, I will align us, and you will have to get up a bit, and then you can sit..." His voice is trembling, it is taking a lot out of him, and you nod. "If you feel friction..."

You move slightly away from him and quickly kiss his lips. "Yeah, I know. I know the mechanics." You suddenly clearly see that you need to take care of him too. You are in it together, he is scared too, you feel his hands shake. He loves you, and he is frightened, for you, and for the two of you. You look him in the eyes. "It's not that scary..." It still is but you are not lying. As long as you remember it's him, you are almost alright. Your place your hands on his shoulders. "It will be alright. And I love you… And thank you..." He emits a choked chuckle.

"It's too early for gratitude, Wren…." You shake your head.

"Thank you… for being kind to me..." Your eyes meet, and the moment is strangely perfect. There is a moment of absolute piercing silence, and then you nod and his hand slides under the blankets, you slightly rise and then you feel his tip pressed at your entrance.

"Wren..." He breathes out.

"Yeah, I know..." You close your eyes and exhale through rounded lips. You concentrate on your sensations, you are warm, you are surrounded by his heat and his smell, the cologne, the soap, his skin, from his body and from his bedding, you open your eyes and meet his. You would probably prefer to squeeze them tight but you remember it is his moment too, it is about the two of your together, and you give him a smile, it's probably small and shaky, but you need him to see it, and then you grab his shoulders and sink on his length. There is a short moment of when there is an obstacle, there is a sharp pang of pain, and then you realise there is no more down to go, you are sitting, your pelvis pressed to his. You were so absorbed in seeing his eyes, shiny and emotional, in letting him see yours, that you haven't realised you did it. The two of you did it.

He is completely still, his lips are slightly open, they might be trembling, it is too dark to see, you release his shoulders you were squeezing, and you slowly exhale.

You lift your hands and run the pulps of your fingers on his face, you trace the brows, the nose, the soft line of lips, and he exhales sharply. His face is so vulnerable and open, and then you see that his eyes are full of tears, and you murmur, "I am alright. We are alright..."

You kiss his lips, they are trembling under yours, and then he finally shifts. His arms go around you, he is embracing you, and you close your eyes and let yourself forget about anything but him.

"Does it hurt?" He is asking, his face buried in the hair near your ear, and you shake your head. It doesn't, there is some sort of discomfort, but you only got your period a year ago, before you were too skinny, and you are used to unpleasant sensations in your nether regions.

"Can I move?" You ask, and he half chokes, half chuckles.

"Please, do," his voice is tense, but he is obviously trying to joke. You tentatively shift your hips, and that's when you realise what you really feel. His cock is long, thick, hot, filling you completely, and it's an amazing sensation. He is taking measured breaths in, you feel his whole body shaking under your hands, muscles bulging on his upper arms, and you suddenly feel a bit guilty. You are torturing him.

"John, I don't know what to do..." Your voice is small, and he kisses your jaw near your ear.

"Do anything you want." You drop your head on his shoulder.

"I want you to enjoy it," you mumble into the material of his tee, and he gently puts his hands on your ribs and moves you so that you have to look into his face.

"Wren, I am," he smiles to you, his teeth are bright white in the dim light seeping into the room from the outside, "But we can't make you have actual sex right now, OK? One step at a time…" You nod and take a deep breath. It tenses the muscles inside you, you seem to suddenly feel more of him. Judging by a hiss he can't keep back, he has noticed it too.

You place your hands on his shoulders, and then you carefully rise above him, it is a strange feeling, he is sliding inside you, and on one hand it's some sort of intrusive rubbing, you feel strangely stretched, but at the same time you feel warm and tingly all over, and your fanny is the source of it. You reach the top point in your experimental rising, and you sink on him again. You meet his eyes, and you are surprised to see they are hungry, and burning, and suddenly it doesn't feel scary, you feel excited, you are doing it, you are causing this reaction, it is you he wants, it is you he is holding in his arms, his hands are once again stroking your back. He bloody loves you, and you bark a short laugh. You are relieved, excited and so very happy.

You quickly and firmly kiss him, and then you repeat your maneuver. And then you go again, this time you are less careful, you rise and sink faster, when you lower yourself, you push your hips into him slightly, and he makes a choked groan like sound somewhere in his throat. It is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard in your life. You want more, you want to elicit all sorts of sounds out of him, and you are so crazy about him at the moment. You start moving, slowly away from him, and sharper and greedier down, into him, taking him in, his tip suddenly pressing at some wall deep inside of you, and it is magnificent! You exhale sharply, you move even faster, and he slides even deeper, and you moan loudly. It is an uncontrollable sound, a barmy thought comes to your head that it doesn't sound like it did in porn, and you laugh again, from sheer happiness and from relief, and he cups the back of your head, he is kissing you greedily, he is mumbling some feverish nonsense, he is saying he loves you, and you rock your hips into him again, and you love him too. He is panting, raspy sharp exhales come out of him, and then he groans loudly as if in pain.

"Wren, I will come soon..." His voice is choked, and that's the moment when you finally accept the reality. You are having sex with your boyfriend, and it's bloody brilliant. No, you correct yourself, you are making love to your boyfriend, the two of you are making love, and you press your hands into his shoulders firmly and start moving in deep pointed rhythm. You don't know if you are doing it right, but even you understand that he doesn't need much at this stage, you instinctively seem to be aiming for a specific angle, and you god honest hope it's the best for him because you so need him to enjoy it, because you so much are!

He growls through bared clenched teeth, his hands suddenly grasp your waist, fingers almost painfully digging into your skin through your top, and he thrusts his hips up and into you three times, pushing you down onto his cock meeting his own movements, and it feels so good than you emit some strange choked yelp. He groans loudly, for a second his body is still, and then he slacks, his head drops back, on the bed behind him, his palms still on your waist, and his cock is twitching inside you. He is breathing loudly through his nose, and you probably have a very surprised face. You like his expression though, his features are completely relaxed, red spots are burning on the cheekbones above the black beard, and you lean in and kiss his bearded jaw.


	63. Chapter 63

He exhales a sequence of some strange sounds, something between chuckles and hiccups, and it ends with a long raspy exhaled _haahhh_. You are studying his face, you are also grinning from ear to ear, and you want to say something.

"What do people normally say in a situation like this?" Your voice is shaky, and you clear your throat. He is tenderly stroking your waist, his palms are sliding over your top, and you are grateful, him touching your scars now would absolutely ruin the moment for you. His head is still dropped back on the bed, you are staring at his throat, he chuckles.

"I do not think there is a protocol for such events," his eyes are closed, and you hesitantly stretch your hand and run the tip of your finger over his bottom lip.

He is still inside you, it feels so odd, your whole body is buzzing, and it is rather overwhelming. You think you need a moment to process what has just happened. He slowly opens his eyes and straightens up. Suddenly your cheeks start burning furiously, which is rather ridiculous, you have literally just had sex, but you are embarrassed and want to hide from him. You need to retreat into yourself, you need your privacy. You have let him into your personal space, it doesn't get more intimate than that, and now you think you need a moment to gather your thoughts. He smiles to you gently, and you lean in and kiss him.

"What do we do now?" Your voice is small, your cheeks are burning, and he places a small kiss on your cheek.

"I need to clean up." You do not want to think about what it entitles. You have almost reached the limit of your endurance, and you exhale slowly. "You should move off me, and I'll go to the bathroom." He cups your face, and you smile to him shakily. "Just please be gentle."

You giggle nervously, pull up his duvet and wrap it around yourself tight, and then clumsily and ungracefully you slide off him, tucking the duvet under yourself. You are sticky, and feel strangely empty, and you suddenly think that there might be blood. You can't bring yourself to look though, and you bite into your bottom lip and drop on your backside near him on the floor, cocooned in his duvet. You pretend to be very engaged with wrapping in it better, you really want to avoid seeing anything, and you hear him get up, rustling and shuffling quietly.

You skew your eyes and see his denim covered legs, he sways and then leaves for the bathroom, he is unsure on his feet. You quickly lift one corner of the duvet, there is no blood, and you wrap again, pulling it almost over yourself, to your ears. You can hear water running in the bathroom, and you close your eyes. You are concentrating on your breath, finding your footing, it feels as if you have just went through a blender, and now you are putting yourself back together. Physically you feel stretched, open, a bit sore, but nothing compared to the cramps you get, and also it feels like there is a draft. It makes you bark a throaty hysterical laugh and bury your nose in his bedding. You take a few deep breaths, grounding yourself in the moment, his smell and the silkiness of the fabric are real, and you need this anchor. You probably should move, maybe get dressed, whatever he says there must be a protocol for that, but you are strangely immobile, your body getting used to this new state. You know for many it's no big deal, the whole rubbish about becoming a woman and such, but you do feel different. You feel very, very nice, to be honest.

You feel him looking at you and lift your eyes. He is standing in the bathroom door, and there is light behind him, and you can't see his face. You probably look like a meringue, only the top half of your face sticking out of the heap of his duvet.

"How are you feeling, Wren?" His tone is slightly tense, and you wonder if he thinks you regret having done it.

"I feel great," your cheeks are burning again, you ask yourself why you feel shy now. He slowly comes up to you and sits on the floor. Meringue you is between his legs, you can finally see his face, features soft, a small smile on his lips, and you clumsily shift, closer to him. The legs wrap around you, the arms as well, and you bury your nose in his neck. He gently kisses your ear. "I feel very nice..." You mumble into his skin, and he chuckles.

"Good to know," he is stroking your hair, and you don't want to move anywhere. You need to though, and you sigh heavily. "Do you want me to help you up?" You want to stay like that, but you should also clean up. You nod, and he moves. He picks you up gently, and it turns out your knees are jelly. He has to catch you because he assumed that since you were vertical you could stay that way.

"Alright, let's help you to the bathroom, love. Or do you want to go straight to bed?" His tone is warm, but there is something new in it. You are too distracted by the strange sensations in your lower stomach and between your legs to analyze it now.

"Bathroom..." He walks you there, and then he goes back to the bedroom to get your galabeya. You suddenly really want to take a shower, and you wonder if it's appropriate to ask. On the other hand, you are still a bit sore and want to lie down. He brings the clothes and leaves, placing a small kiss on the top of your head, you clean up and splash cold water on your face. You change and plod back, once again wrapped in the blanket.

He is sitting on the bed, already in his PJs, and then you see your trousers and pants on the floor. He also looks at where you are staring and chuckles. You quickly give him the duvet, pick your stuff up and rush back to the bathroom. And then you freeze with your knickers in your hand. They are probably sticky too, but you always sleep in your pants. Somehow it completely stumps you. You were so worried about this dinner that you didn't take a toothbrush or clean underwear with you.

"Wren? You OK there?" You are still staring at the blue cotton item in your hand. He knocks at the door, and you let him in. "What is it?" You look at his face, and you understand what's new. He is relaxed. If before his mellowness was the result of very hard and systematic work on his mood, right now he is chuffed. Apparently that's what he is like when he shags. Every line in his face is soft, eyes are shining, and he is gazing at you, there is no better word for it. He is making lovey dovey eyes at you, and suddenly you laugh, throw the knickers on the floor and jump at him, throwing your arms around him. Who cares about underwear and a toothbrush! You just shagged John Crispin Thorington!


	64. Chapter 64

You wake up the next morning in his bed, you open your eyes and stare at him. Last night he found you a spare toothbrush, and your knickers are washed and drying in his bathroom, and you are studying his face. After snogging extensively in the bathroom the two of you returned to the bedroom and crawled under the duvet. You were flagging it, but although you felt very uncomfortable you asked him if you could put the pillows between the two of you like he had done the very first night you spent together. You felt you needed a bit of privacy, some space, and he smiled to you warmly and built the barricade. Right now he is sleeping on his stomach, one of his long arms thrown over the pillow wall, his large palm on your side, on the pillow near your face. You gently run the tip of your index finger along the strong long fingers to the masculine wrist, you are studying the black hair on the other side of the hand and forearm, and then you shift your gaze and your eyes follow the jawline, the black beard, the cheekbones. there is one curl lying on his cheek, it is dark and looks very soft. It is a strange feeling, your mind seems to be looking for an obstacle, for a reason for anxiety, and you remind yourself that there is none. He is here, he loves you, you trust him.

"I love you," you whisper, and suddenly one corner of his curved lips twitches. You gasp, he is not asleep. "How long have you been pretending?" Your voice is laced with sincere indignation, and the lips twitch again and a small smile spreads on his face. You emit an "ooph" and move away from him, hiding under the duvet with your head. You can hear him softly laughing outside your shelter.

"Come out, Leary," his voice is raspy from sleep, "You've been properly caught ogling and proclaiming your feelings. It's time to face the squad." You shake your head under the duvet.

"I'm staying here till Monday when you have to go to work," you mumble, your cheeks are burning. You are also trying to ignore the mixed smells of your perfume, his cologne and, as even you understand, your intimacy on the sheets, which is virtually impossible to do with your magical nose, as John calls it.

"I can't say this plan doesn't suit me, but I'm worried we understand it quite differently," he purrs, you feel him moving but you are not sure what exactly he is doing, and then suddenly his palm brushes your hip. You squeal and jump away from him. He is not moving anymore, and you understand he is pondering whether you are scared or this game is still OK with you. You decide you don't like him holding his playfulness back, and you snake your hand under the duvet as well and tickle his knee. There are funny snorting sounds, and this time there are two large scorching palms brushing at your legs. You jump at him, pushing the pillows away, and suddenly you really want to press your body to his. You push the thought of how little clothes there are on you two at the back of your mind, and he dives under the blankets and sheet as well, and you wrap around him. His arms go around you, your leg hikes up, you are half lying on him, and you find his mouth. You two are kissing, it is too hot and stuffy under the duvet, and you start laughing.

You batter the duvet from the two of you, he doesn't let you go, still kissing you, his lips slide on your neck, and then he slows down. He is going to ask what the plan is, and for once you don't want to decide. You are warm and feel soft and pliable after last night and just want him to touch and kiss, and you want to forget about anything else. He starts moving away, you grab the back of his head and pulls him to your lips.

You are also slightly rolling off him, and then your hand lies on his upper arm, and you pull him on top of you. He pauses, his lips on your jaw, and you breathe out, "Please… I want to try..."

He complies, his body finally weighs on you, you gasp and wrap your arms around his neck. He is wearing an old soft tee and PJ bottoms, and you can feel his erection pressed to you between your legs. You hesitantly bend your leg and rub your foot to the back of his thigh. It's hot and firm under the arch of your sole, and it's magnificent. Your fingers are splayed on his nape now, and it is an amazing spot, you want to explore it more, a bold image of doing it with your lips comes. He groans and nips your bottom lip rather painfully. You jerk, and he mumbles, "Sorry… It's just… It's..." You repeat your maneuver with the foot, and he slightly rises to look at you face.

"Are you?.. Are we?.." You are certain he himself doesn't know what he is trying to ask. He looks completely bladdered. You smile to him and nod. You want to try again, this time perhaps he can be on top. His eyes widen, and he takes a deep breath in.

"Wren, are you certain? I mean it was… special last night, and I do want you… God, I do want you, but you might want to wait..."

"I don't want to wait," your voice is firm, "And if you don't stop talking I'll start doubting it and will freak out..."

"Maybe you should start doubting it..." His face is suddenly miserable, and he is frowning, "Because if it's just in the heat of a moment..."

"Isn't sex always?" You attentively listen to your sensations. The two of you are talking but you don't feel any less turned on, you still want it, and although his heavy body on yours is a bit intimidating, you are overall comfortable with it, even though the haze from his kisses is slightly ebbing.

"Wren, what do you want exactly?" His tone is uncertain, "Do you want to repeat what we did yesterday? Or do you want to try… new things?" He suddenly doesn't look that excited, and you feel a pang of discomfort. It seemed absolutely right and thrilling a moment ago, but it was because he was there with you, breathing heavily, his lips bright, kisses greedy, eyes burning. Now that he is studying you as if during a medical examination you are starting to feel anxious. You gulp and almost feel like suggesting the two of you to take a break, but then you remember his face last night, his eyes full of tears, tenderness and love in all his features, his hand stroking your back, bringing you back from your panic, his lips on your jaw, the whisper 'I'm here,' and you take a deep breath in, gathering your courage.

"What would you want if it were our night number three hundred thirty eight?"

"What?" His eyebrows jump up but you see that the line of his lips relaxes a bit.

"If it weren't our first night, but night number three hundred thirty eight, what would you do?" He chuckles tentatively.

"Are we one of those couples who spend a lot of time in bed in this scenario? Or we are bored of each other by then already?" His tone is teasing, and you quickly kiss his lips.

"Well, you have an increased libido, and I read Kamasutra and have photographic memory. What do you think?" You cock one brow suggestively, and he laughs openly.

"Minx," he catches your mouth, and then his hand lies on your hip. You jerk, he pauses, but you run your tongue on the inside of his lips, the way he did last night to distract you, it worked for you, and it does seem to work for him. His fingers curl, and he squeezes your thigh. "Wren, I don't want to scare you..." He is murmuring into your neck.

"I'm not scared… What do you want, John?"

"I want you… God, Wren, I want you so much..." His voice breaks, and you grab his ears and make him look into your eyes.

"Then get a durex… Just let's stay under the duvet for now..." He shifts and grabs a condom from the bedside table. He is supporting himself on one elbow, opens the package with his teeth, his hand dives under the duvet, and you assume he is opening the buttons on the fly of his bottoms under the duvet. He doesn't take them off, you are bunching up your galabeya, and then you blurt out, "Can you take off your tee, please?" He pauses his ministrations somewhere down there and looks at you. You are stroking the back of his neck. "I want to touch you." He nods, his jaws are clenched, and then he awkwardly moves and balancing on one knee and one arm he wiggles out of his tee, switching the arm in the process.

For a second he freezes above you, his tee thrown to the floor, the duvet is in a tent over his body, and you smile to him widely.

"You are so beautiful, John," you run your hand up his arm he is supporting himself on, the muscle are bulging on it, the coarse hair scrapes your palm on the forearm, the upper arm is hot and solid, and then you slightly rise and caress his wide shoulders. He is shaking, you assume it is hard for him to control himself, and you lie down and stretch your arms to him in a clear invitation.


	65. Chapter 65

**A/N: Is it true that for some of you not all my stories show up? How about Thorin in Hogwarts? :( And Doctor Who crossover I just updated?**

**Dearreader, sorry to bother you here, but I can't PM you, so: what do you mean by 'regular webpage' as opposed to 'author's page'? What exactly is wrong with my page? :( **

He lies down, supporting himself on his elbows, and then he slides his hand under your back, his palms are under your shoulder blades, you momentarily remember he said he was mad about them, and he gently kisses your lips. You place your hands on the scorching skin of his shoulders, and then you gather more courage and slide them on his nape. He is slowly kissing you, and then his hips shift and his tip presses to your entrance. You jerk and tense. You already know this position is not going to be your favourite, it's very intrusive, he is heavy, and your legs are open wide. You also have no way to hide from his eyes, and right now he is attentively studying your face. You have a stupid thought that judging by the videos you watched people make ridiculous faces when they shag, unless they are acting and then it's just stupid, and you immediately start questioning what your face looks like, and what it looked like last night.

"Wren," his voice is soft, and you blink and focus on his eyes. He was greedy, hungry just a moment ago, and suddenly you see his face is relaxed and there is a smile in his eyes. "You look like you are factorising quadratic polynomial equations in your head at the moment." You stare at him and then snort. His cock is literally pressed to your labia, and he is taking the mickey!

"What is a quadratic polynomial equation?"

"Not the foggiest, just sounded smart to me. What's up, Wren?" His eyes are soft. He was just shaking and looked as if he was in pain from his arousal, and now he is placing small lazy kisses along your jaw.

"I was wondering if I would be making silly faces when we… start." His lips stop near your ear, he snorts, you jerk, his breath tickled your helix. You really should learn to control your random blabbering. Who knew that once you stopped being scared of your own words, it would turn out there was no filter between your brain and your mouth?

"People do look rather daft when they shag," his voice is shaking from laughter, and you look at him in disbelief.

"Are you… OK? I mean, we were going to… and now we are talking..." He lifts one brow, and your cheeks are starting to burn.

"Wren, I don't just need a shag from you. And I like talking to you. And I need you to enjoy it. And not worry about your face," he is smiling to you and then kisses your cheek, "I like your face," another kiss closer to your ear, "And I liked it last night," another one even closer, "Your eyes burned and you look fierce," his lips are on your ear, and he catches your earlobe between his lips, it is really working for you, "I thought you would stop when you sat on me for the first time, and you shagged my brains out." He is whispering into your ear, and suddenly you feel very, very wet between your legs.

You would love to come up with some equally arousing inappropriate remark, but your oversized brain at the moment is only capable of quiet squeaking, so you let your body act. Your legs wrap around his waist, and you dig your heels into his buttocks, pushing him down onto and into yourself. You feel that he added his teeth into whatever magic he was creating, playing with your ear, and then he pushes into you. A loud moan, just like yesterday, bursts out of you, and you should be mortified but all you can perceive at the moment is his thick hot length inside you. You are taking large gulps of air with open mouth, and he slightly rises above you.

"Alright?" His tone is tender, and you nod. You want him to move. He does, slowly rolling his hips into you, his palms under your back, you feel wrapped in him, his heat and fragrance of his skin seeping into you, and you moan louder. You can't control it, you will agonise about it later, at the moment you don't care about anything.

"God, Wren, you are so bloody sexy..." He is murmuring into the skin of your neck, his hot mouth sliding on it, and you experimentally push your hips up from the bed into him. He chokes and groans loudly.

His skin is smooth, tanned, lush under your hands, and you twist your head and press your lips to his shoulder. It makes his hips stutter, and you feel completely naked. You open your mouth and have more taste. And then he thrusts sharper, and your teeth sink into his shoulder.

"God, Wren..." He is snarling, it is very animalistic and somehow suits him, and it's his turn to twist his head. He catches your mouth, his hips renewing the slow measured rhythm, his movements languished and savouring, and he presses his forehead to yours, and whispers, "Don't do this… I'm trying to control myself..."

You hum, agreeing with him, and close your eyes. You do want to see him, he has the most beautiful expression, but you think you might feel more this way. These are exquisite sensations, he slides into you, and there is some additional twist at the end of his movement, he bends his back, your pelvis rises to accommodate his length, his hot breath in on your neck, you drop your head back, and his lips are on your throat.

You open your eyes again, and you let go of his shoulders. You stretch your arms above your head, it is a strange liberating movement, you feel more open and vulnerable, but this is a good openness, trusting and emotional, and he moans when he notices.

"I love you, Wren, I love you… I love you..." He is murmuring, and your eyes meet. You smile to him, you feel like you are dancing without moving, you wrap your legs tighter around his waist, and he is placing small kisses on your collarbones now.

"And I you..." You breathe out somewhere into the ceiling, and you feel his movements speed up. He is close to orgasm, and it is an amazing feeling. You want him to come, it is a strangely triumphant moment, not that you did anything to cause it, but you did last night, and it was amazing. But it is you he is making love to, it is your body that is giving him pleasure, and suddenly something clenches in your stomach. You freeze in surprise, but he is too close to completion. You will investigate next time.

"Wren?" He seems to be asking something, but you are too absorbed into listening to this new heat pooling in your lower stomach, and then he slightly rises over you, his thrusts become harsher, deeper, and then in a few forceful moves he comes. And then you hear him swear under his breath.

He freezes, his cock twitches in you, and you are tense and immobile. Something happened, something went wrong. And then his body slacks, he drops his head on the pillow near yours, and he is panting loudly and heavily.

You tentatively wrap your arms around his neck and stroke his nape. You are panicking but you remember how he needed a few second to come back to his senses last night. He is breathing and you don't want him to recover. You will have to deal with whatever went wrong and made him swear. Something tells you 'fuck me, bloody fuck' means you buggered up.

**A/N: And by the reviews to the ending of this chapter I'll be able to tell which ones of you read other of my stories, ****my lovelies**** :)**


	66. Chapter 66

**A/N: OK, now it all makes sense. So ****crossover stories**** get tucked in some far hidden corners on FF site. No more crossovers then :) I'll just state in the description if a story is borrowing anything from a different fandom but won't make them crossovers. Poor babies, they have abandonment issues! :)**

**Those of you who check my page****: you haven't missed any stories! Do come back for more though, please :) **

**Those of you who check the feed****: there will be no more crossovers, so you are good! I fixed the Doctor Who one as well, and it does show up there. So keep your eye on it! :)**

**A/N#2: My ****joke**** in the final A/N in the previous chapter fell flat I guess :) I meant that those of you who read other stories would know that Thorin/John swearing right after… hm… is a good thing, while this particular Wren wouldn't know it. But again, it'll be explained in a mo :D**

* * *

><p>"Are you alright?" There is no way out of it, you need to ask him. Several panicked thoughts whir in your mind, whether you have moved wrong, or you have clenched him inside, maybe you were not supposed to move at the end, you are rather certain you were lifting your pelvis from the bed during the last few thrusts of his. It was instinctive, you had very little control over it.<p>

He chortles and heavily rises, shifting his elbows. His eyes are right in front of you, and he rubs the tip of his nose to yours.

"Not something I expected to hear after this, but yeah, I'm alright," there are warm little chuckles rumbling in his chest, "Are you alright?" His eyes are smiling, and you have no control over your mouth, again.

"Did I hurt… something? Did I…?" You want to say 'ruin it all,' but with each passing day you are less and less inclined to make dramatic statements. Recently life is less harsh, your heart rate doesn't rocket sky high that easily, purely chemically you are in a better control of your emotions. And again endorphins are coursing your blood, his cock is still in you.

"Hurt?" His eyebrows jump up. He also shudders, and you understand you clenched your inner muscles from nervousness.

"You swore, at the end..." Your cheekbones are flaming.

"Really?" He doesn't look upset, or hurt, to be honest he looks bladdered and slightly loony. There is a mad dark curl jumping in front of his long nose, and then he is laughing and kissing you sloppily on the nose and cheeks, it's ticklish, and you are starting to hope whatever you did wasn't that bad, since he is so obviously chuffed. "You haven't... hurt anything," he snorts again, "I swear after… Apparently… Well, I used to, but it hasn't happened since I was twenty, maybe, because… Well, because I'm not a hormonal teen anymore and a shag isn't that exciting..." He is still chuckling, and your jaw slacks.

"You said 'fuck me, bloody fuck'," you mumble, and he roars with laughter.

"A double one even, wow! I don't remember that, but again if I swore, my brain must have been completely conked out," he quickly but firmly kisses you, "Sorry about that."

You giggle, you really have nothing else to do. And then you exhale in relief, it went well. Oddly enough this little mishap at the end can almost be considered a blessing, you were so worried that you haven't noticed his weight on you, now that he is not moving and stopped creating this magic in your fanny.

"I think I was approaching an orgasm, actually," you apparently have given up on controlling your blabbering. His eyebrows twitch, and he smiles almost apologetically.

"Sorry, love, I should have tried to last longer..."

You want to tell him that he is being hard on himself, it is only your second time, you probably couldn't have even if you had tried, and honestly you have only managed to come couple times before, and based on the extensive research you have done those were clitoral. Having him inside you and moving in those magnificent slow deep strokes felt different. You want to tell him it still felt wonderful, and you were not scared although you had expected to, and you want to say you love him, but then you grab the back on his head and pull him down to your lips.

You kiss him firmly and murmur, "We'll do better the next time."

"Oh yes, please," he grins enthusiastically, and you laugh.

He leaves for the bathroom, you once again hide with your head under the duvet when he is climbing off the bed, you are not sure whether it's because you are still squirmish regarding the physiological and anatomical part of it, or you are once again in need for a bit of privacy.

"Do you mind if I take the shower first?" His voice from the bathroom makes you jerk, you haven't realised it but you've fallen asleep. You tell him it's fine and immediately fall asleep again.

You wake up disoriented, very warm and unpleasantly clammy in the spots you don't want to think about. It smells like eggs and toast in the air, and you stretch in his bed. You wonder if it's appropriate to stay here for a wee bit more, but then you are overcome with a dire desire to take a shower.

You plod to the kitchen, he is sitting at the counter and is playing on his phone. Judging by the frowned brows and an almost snarl on his face, it's Angry Birds. He catapults a poor avian and pumps his fist silently in the air. You snort, and he jerks. He didn't hear you come in.

"Wotcher," he looks embarrassed, and you are grinning.

"If you don't mind, I'll take a shower." He is once again ogling you, it feels ace.

"The towel is on the rack, and there is a clean robe there if you don't want to put on your clothes." He is wearing old worn out denim and a soft tee, with some half washed away college logo. Apparently you two are having a lie-in, and you really do not mind.

You walk to the shower and check your phone on the way there. It's half past eleven, and you laugh. You have never in your life had such an idle day. There is a text from Thea, she is wishing you good luck at the dinner, and then another one from her that was sent at half past two, saying 'Go get him, tigress!' You snort and step under the hot streams of water.

There is a knock at the door, and John yells that he is cooking a 'breakfast slash lunch,' and he asks what your thoughts on ham are. You yell back that it is processed pork, which undergoes preservation through curing, smoking, or salting, and is traditionally made only from the hind leg of swine, and while there are claims that the Chinese were the first people to mention the production of raw cured ham, Larousse Gastronomique claims its origin from Gaul, but it was certainly well established by the Roman period, including an import trade from Gaul mentioned by Marcus Terentius Varro in his writings.

He guffaws and asks if he can stick his head inside the bathroom. You chew on your lip and after a pause allow it. The door opens, you take a deep breath in and peek from behind the curtain. His head is indeed the only thing sticking in, and he smiles from ear to ear.

"You are absolutely barmy, and I love you," his voice is a purr, and he disappears closing the door behind him. You are grinning like a numpty through the rest of the shower.

**A/N: How are your cavities, my darlings? :P**


	67. Chapter 67

You like his robe, it's warm, and long, and stripy, and you can wrap in it several times, you pull on your knickers and plod into the kitchen, your feet are cold on the wooden boards, and he is making a cuppa. You put on your socks in the bedroom, but they don't provide enough warmth.

"John, would I be able to borrow your socks?" He freezes with a teabag in his hand, his back to you, and then he loudly clears his throat.

"Are you not wearing any?" He is still not turning, and you know him well enough by now to understand something is off. You also know that it is not a bad 'off,' it's a sex thing, you know his tense aroused voice when you hear it now. You want to tell him that you indeed are wearing yours, but something has changed in you last night.

"Why?" You sit on a stool and dangle your feet in the air. He clears his throat again and finally throws the teabag into a mug.

"So, are you?" That is getting interesting, his shoulders are immobile, and you slide off the chair and hesitantly come up to him. You can see the outlines of his muscles through the soft, worn out tee, and you tingle head to toe.

It takes three deep inhales to push yourself to slowly wrap your arms around his waist, he is scorching and smells very nice, you press your cheek to his back, and you whisper, "Is there something I should be aware of?" His large palms cover yours on his stomach, it's rock hard and makes you clench some tired muscles inside you.

"I might have a bit of a fetish." His tone is clearly embarrassed, and you giggle.

"Is there such thing as a bit of fetish? Is it not aut caesar aut nihil type of thing?" You might be flaunting your knowledge of Latin and perhaps enjoying his frozen, uncomfortable state a bit too much. He gulps, and you take mercy.

"I am wearing socks, and I would like to hear about that sock thing of yours," you are laughing, and he exhales in relief and looks down. You wiggle your toes in your dull black trouser socks, and he suddenly groans.

"You know what, it is still working," his voice is tortured, and you giggle.

"So, it's not a sock thing, it's a bare foot thing?" You'd expect to be freaked out by any sort of kinks or perversions, considering your history, but somehow it's adorable. He carefully turns, making sure your arms remain around his waist, and looks down at you. His cheeks above the beard are burning, and he looks endlessly ladgeful.

"It's not very prominent, and doesn't happen with all women, you just have tiny feet, and I have never seen them..." He clears his throat again. You hum pensively, giving his a fake studying look, and he squirms under it.

"And what is the extent of your… idiosyncrasy?" You are suppressing laughter.

"I'm not a perv! I just like them! Feet, I mean," his voice would be squeaky if it were possible with his diapason, "And I bet yours are ace, and I am… curious," you are starting to snort, and his face is defensive, "I don't get off from them, I just want to… see..."

"And touch perhaps?" You are lifting one brow. You have never been in a situation like this, but somehow that is more comfortable than dealing with his general arousal. You still can't understand how he can find your sexually attractive, him being slightly obsessed with one piece of anatomy you can relate to. You have OCD and have dreams about his neck, though given that is not the only part of him you would want to explore. He shifts his eyes to the side. "How about kiss? Would you like that?" You shortly wonder where this suggestive tone came from. He then has this face that he used to have seconds before he would run to the bathroom to stick his head under cold water. Except these days you two are shagging. "I don't mind." Your tone is light, and he stares at you in complete shock.

"What?!"

"Well, I know I made you have sex with me in clothes and under your duvet," you chew at your bottom lip, "But eventually I'm hoping we'll be comfortable with each other's bodies, and I do want to be able to see and touch… everything." You can't help but quip, "Feet included." You snort, and he gives you a feigned wounded look.

"You didn't make me have sex with you in any way, we made love," he quickly leans and pecks your lips, "And I liked our tent shag." You are smiling widely to him. "And now you should go back to the counter and let me feed you."

You have no objections, you are famished, and the two of you are enjoying bubble and squeak and ham, and once you are finishing the third slice you realise he is not eating but watching you. You freeze with food behind your cheek and lift your eyebrows questioningly.

"I have to tell you, watching you eat is a rather erotic experience," his voice is like treacle, and you swallow your food spasmodically. You'd assume he is joking, but his eyes are dark. One of your videos included energetic shag on a kitchen table, and your damned photographic memory deftly pushes a few images into your head. He is nonchalantly stirring half a sugarbowl into his tea, and you suspect that's his revenge for your sock taunting. You quickly ask yourself if you are brave enough, and with astonishment realise you are. You lift your leg and brush the arch of your foot up his calf. He chokes on his tea and starts coughing, his eyes boggled, and you are suddenly worried that instead of flirting with your boyfriend you might have killed him.

"Bloody hell, Wren," he is leaning on the counter, his eyes are teary, and he is pressing his hand to his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I thought it would be fun..." You are tense on your stool, fork clasped in your hand, and he lifts his eyes at you.

"It was definitely something… But let's not do that again..." His voice is still coarse, and you feel terribly guilty.

"OK, I'm sorry, no more teasing," your voice is small, and he rubs his face with his hands.

"Wren, forget the choking, though that would be a ridiculous way to go. It's the foot thing, you don't understand… It is very hard to keep it in check all the time, and when you do something like that, I know you don't mean it, but… I obviously won't jump on you, but be merciful. It actually hurts after being up for so long," he sits back on his stool and takes a giant sip from his mug. You are still frozen deciphering his words. He thinks he was making sense, but you feel like you are translating Virgil in the original in your head. Then it dawns.

"Do you mean you are randy at the moment?!" You sound completely disbelieving. The same emotion is clearly splashing in his eyes, his fork stopping mid-air.

"Do you mean you weren't aware?"

"We just had… Did… This morning..." And then you remember the heightened libido, and you are not certain, but if it accumulates for them, he might actually be in the mood, as he claims. You quickly listen to your body, and then you decisively put your fork down. "Let's go to bed." You really wish you had a camera right now, his facial expression is worthy of commemorating.


	68. Chapter 68

"You are serious," he is not asking. His eyebrows are hiked up in a delighted surprise, there is still a neatly cut triangle of ham hanging off his fork, and you scold yourself, you honestly don't have a very good timing. You blush furiously.

"I'm sorry… It was really random of me, I should have waited for you to finish your meal..." You mumble, and suddenly he loudly guffaws. He puts his fork down and quickly wipes his lips with a napkin.

"Honestly, I am not complaining here," he is still chuckling, and you smile to him shyly. He slowly stand up from his stool and comes up to you. He is looming over you, his tee is right in front of your nose, and you catch the smell of his soap and his skin.

"I mean if you want to do dishes first..." You are only half joking. You have OCD, it's mild, but you can't leave your kitchen until everything is where it belongs, Thea goes with it, and if you are somewhere else, you just repeat your mantra that "it's not your place." You do the same at the moment, and he is studying you with a soft smile.

"Wren, I am capable of heroic acts for you, so we can do dishes first, if it makes you feel better, but you just said 'lets go to bed' so..."

"Can you carry me?" You interrupt him, and then you are so embarrassed that you hide your face in his sternum. You find it interesting that although it's him you are hiding from, you didn't cover your burning face with your hands, you pressed it into his rock hard chest. He is chuckling again, and you rub your nose to him. You can feel the muscles, the rough hair, and the already familiar tingling comes, all over your skin, you are probably pink head to toe.

Being deprived of ability to run away on your own feet is one of your strongest triggers, you could never stand being carried or picked up. You are small, and it was very easy for your foster father and later those boys who bullied you at school to grab you across your body and manhandle you the way they wanted.

But you remember how he picked you up the very first night, after you collapsed in the shower, his arms were supporting but not restricted, and he was very gentle, as if carrying something made of crystal, and he was warm, and you want to try. He has also never initiated it before, even when you had the migraine and could hardly walk, he didn't pick you up. You know he won't, unless you ask.

He is still looking at you warmly, and you lift your arms. He slightly bends, picks you up under your bent knees, and his other arm goes under your back, you wrap your arms around his neck, and it's perfect. You push your nose in his neck and murmur, "So, no dishes?"

He guffaws again and walks to the bedroom. You are giggling and then kiss his neck. You are getting bolder with each minute, but you feel so free. You always thought sex to be a rather solemn affair, arousal seemed almost debilitating to you, the hunger, the urges, uncomfortable, suffocating. You are giddy, and it feels like proverbial butterflies in your stomach, and you continue exploration of his neck. He hums in pleasure, and after reaching the bed, he carefully presses his knee in it and places on the still rumpled sheets. You considered fixing them when you got up, but again, it's not your place. He is trying to straighten up but you keep on pulling him down by his neck. His eyes widen in surprise, and you catch his mouth. It is slightly terrifying, but you are telling yourself there is no right or wrong.

He lowers himself on you, and then he rolls on his side, facing you, and you push your fingers in his hair, guiding his mouth first to your lips, and then to your jaw, he gets the hint, and then he is kissing your neck, you drop your head back, his hand gently lies on your waist, and you sigh.

You need to quickly determine how much you dare to go for right now, you don't want the two of you to have to stop in the middle because it got uncomfortable for you, so you push him on his back and slide on top of him.

"Shall we build another tent?" He is joking but his eyes are tense and hungry, and you sit up straighter on him. You have a choice of staying in your comfort zone, but you feel slightly dissatisfied with this idea, or you can try something new, but you are not sure what. You ponder possibilities, but you are definitely not ready for seeing him fully naked or being in the buff in front of him. His tee could go though.

"Can you please sit back to the headboard?" You sound shy, you don't want to seem bossy, but he smiles to you widely, and you quickly kiss him. "And thank you."

"Isn't it too early for thank you's?" He repeats what he said the very first time, but now it is much lighter, playful, and you feel cheeky.

"Oh I'm sure, you'll deliver." His eyebrows jump up, and he barks a short laughter.

"Oh, why do I get a feeling that I have bitten more than I can chew?" He is looking at you with brilliant eyes, and suddenly you clearly understand that he is in love with you.

Not just in that strange, convoluted, unbelievable way as he was before, when he had to try really hard to get through to you, and you couldn't believe that he would keep on fighting, through your anxiety and your anger and mistrust. He is in love with you, and he likes you, and maybe just a little bit he thinks you are fun. You feel fun. He is still not moving, and you press your palms into the bed on the two sides of his head, and start slowly descending, keeping your eyes locked, and he takes a spasmodic breath in, you feel in under your body, and you feel brave and free. And for the first time in your life... you feel sexy.

"Shirt off, Thorington, and move to the board," you purr into his widened eyes, almost no irises visible around giant pupils, you lower your lips on his, slowly kiss him, and then let the tip of your tongue brush on his bottom lip. He gasps and then jerks. You tense, momentarily worried you made a faux pas, but he is just making some spasmodic wiggly movements to shift back on the bed, and you are bobbing on him and start laughing loudly. An innuendo with the verb 'ride' pops up in your head, and you laugh harder.

He is finally sitting, you are straddling him, and he eagerly jerks off his tee. You bite into your bottom lip and hesitantly stretch your hands to the pectoral muscles. There is the stark black tattoo, there is coarse black hair, and you want to touch and explore, but then you decide you should probably ask.

"Are we in a hurry?" It sounds ridiculous, but you are just not certain how to make sure that if you start touching and poking it's not going to be torturing him, and he did mention that it starts hurting after a while, but he starts chortling and gently places his palms on your robe covered hips.

"We are not," and then he cocks one of his brows, and it's very funny and flirty, it turns into this whimsical angle, and you giggle. "What did you have in mind?"


	69. Chapter 69

You splay your hand on his right shoulder, your pale skin in a stark contrast to his tanned one, and even more so to the black lines of his tattoo.

"Is it Polynesian?" His skin is very warm, and he is studying your nose.

"Yes," his voice is soft, and his hands are slowly stroking your hips through the robe.

"Where did you get it?"

"The Marquesas, I spent two years there in my twenties," you hike up your brows, "It was a phase, I thought myself the second Gauguin."

"Did you draw beautiful women with perfect breasts?"

"They are not perfect!" He feigns indignation, "They are too big, especially on Tehura," he is chuckling, you two are once again leading an intellectual discussion in the middle of a copping off session. "These are perfect breasts," he points at yours with his eyes, and you blush.

"You have never seen them," you think you should point it out.

"I have very vivid imagination and sharp estimation skills, and to be honest galabeya doesn't hide much," he is grinning roguishly, and you gasp. He cocks one eyebrow, and you decide to retaliate. You pick up his left hand and decisively place it over your breast. His eyebrows jump up to the hairline. You go back to his tattoo, this time you are tracing the black lines with your index finger.

"So what were you doing at the Marquesas?"

"What?" His voice is raspy, his hand is not moving, and he is staring at it. You giggle.

"What did your imagining yourself the second Gauguin entitle?" He clears his throat.

"I was painting," he gently brushes his thumb over your tip, and then he starts stroking the underside of your breast with the tips of his fingers. It feels very good. Last time you were actually disappointed of how little you felt, but again you were wearing a vest and a bra, and these days you understand the mechanics of sex a bit better.

"Were you any good?"

"No," he tilts his head and follows the movements of his fingers with his eyes, "So then I pulled my head out of my arse, came back and went to uni." You hum showing that you are listening, and then you rake your nails down the pectoral muscle. You don't know where it came from, but it's rock hard and very hot, and it just happened. He jerks, and his hand slides from your breast to your ribs. You understand he wants to pull you closer, and you think you are ready for another step ahead. You pick up his hands, both this time, and place them on the sides of your knees. The robe has bunched up, just above them, and his scorching palms are on your skin. You lean in, your hands on his shoulders, and gently kiss him.

"Just don't go above the waist," you whisper into his lips, and he makes a strange strangled sound, half chuckle, half choke. His fingers twitch on you, and then he takes a deep breath in.

"Usually the instructions are exactly the opposite," he sounds like a teen with a breaking voice. To think of it, that's an experienced man with a heightened libido. And then he starts sliding his palms up, and a lopsided smirk appears on his lips, and he is straightening up, his whole body following his slow rise up your thighs, and he tilts his head, and places a feature light, but incredibly sexy kiss on your neck. You take it back, he is no way a teenager.

"You have glorious legs," he is murmuring into your neck, "I don't ever see them. If you ever wear a skirt I'll be staring at them the whole time." You feel dizzy, from his raspy voice, from the feeling of the large strong hands on your hips under the sides of the robe, and then he reaches your knickers, and you think he'll stop, but he pushes his fingers under them, they are simple cotton bikinis, and he splays his fingers on your buttocks. You take a big open-mouthed gulp of air, he is nuzzling your neck, you are excited, but not scared. You can ask him to back off. You don't want to, you want him to move. You consider spurring him a bit.

"Will you be staring at my bum if I wear tight jeans?" His lips find your ear, and then he catches your lobe between his teeth.

"If you ever wear tight jeans, with these legs of yours, and these small, perky... perfect buttocks, I won't let you out of this flat," there is an almost growl in his voice, and you move away from him to see how much of this is actually a joke. His eyes are dark, and there is something primitive and natural in his stare. You note that at least partially there is possessiveness there.

"You are taking a piss, aren't you?" You still can't believe it. "What sort of a Neanderthal attitude is that?" He grins and then quickly pecks your lips.

"I will be using convincing and very civilised arguments, no brute force." You lift one brow, mimicking his expression.

"Which arguments would that be?" He shifts his palms, on the front sides of your thighs, and then brushes his thumbs on the insides. You jump up and whimper. It is so sensitive that you almost want to move off him. Or maybe you want him to continue this, because you feel that your knickers are wet, and you already know what a clitoral orgasm feels like. You have a choice of backing off, and you know he'll go with it, or you can push yourself just a little bit further.

It is all a question of trust, and it is John after all. You lean in, wrap your arms around his neck, press your temple to his, he gently rubs his cheek to yours, and then you whisper in his ear, "Can you please touch me?"

You move closer to him, to do it you have to spread your legs wider, it's mildly terrifying, but it also makes his hands, that he wasn't moving, shift up, to the knickers, and then he kisses the side of your neck and confidently brushes the pulp of his thumb over your clit over your underwear. It is a very light touch, but you inhale loudly, and squeeze his neck tighter.

"Close your eyes, love," his whisper is tender, and he once again rubs his cheek to yours, "Just relax and breathe."

You nod, and soft loving strokes begin. He is moving the thumb up and down, and you are grateful that he is not going for diversity. Your mind is grasping for some sort of control over your sensations, each time you are trying to anticipate what happens next, and since his movements are so repetitive, you start relaxing after a while and concentrate on the warmth spilling between your legs.

"I'm going to change it now, love, OK?" You once again nod, your head is spinning, and you shortly wonder how much longer you can hold on. The pulp of his thumb switches to circular movements, and it is definitely better. Muscles clench in your lower stomach, and you moan. And then he adds curled up index finger, while the thumb is moving in circles, the finger meets it in a vertical movements. You think that's an astonishing dexterity he is demonstrating here, and then you come.

First, it's like a zap of electricity, precisely where he was rubbing, and then it spreads between your legs in sweet, slow waves, and you realise you are moaning very, very loudly, pressing your forehead in his shoulder, your fingers clutching handfuls of his hair. He is softly stroking your shoulder blades over the robe, his temple is pressed over your head, and you hear that you switched from moaning loudly to some sort of high mewling sounds. You are trying to gather your wits, your ears are actually ringing.

"Why am I so loud?" Your brain is mush, and you consider gagging yourself next time you two are shagging. You wonder if there are some sort of meditative exercises that can teach you to shut your gob when you are aroused.

"Bless you, that's my favourite part," he is chuckling and softly kisses your hair, "If I knew you are a screamer before, I'd probably be in much more pain waiting for us to get here at last."

"I sounded like a puppy asking for a treat," you are still panting, your mumbling is muffled by his shoulder.

"That's after," he is straight forwards purring, he sounds very smug too, "It's ace. I'll be waiting for these sounds all the time now. But your loud moans are… just wow." You try to get up, but you are a ragdoll. Your suddenly floppy arms slide down, and you realise you are nodding off. That is almost as embarrassing as the loud noises you were making, and then he turns, supporting you under your shoulder blades, and he puts you down on the bed and pulls the duvet over you.

"What?.." You mumble and he kisses the tip of your nose. He lies on his side, facing you, a bent arm under his cheek, and he is smiling to you. He is also keeping some space between your bodies, you wonder if it's because he wants to get up, or because he is being considerate, your thoughts jumble, you want to wrap yourself into him. "Can I…?" You feel so drowsy, you can't talk, you just weakly brush the tips of your fingers to his chest, and he immediately pulls you into him and rolls on his back. He arranges you into his side, you push your fingers into his chest hair, it feels amazing, and that is your last thought before you fall through some sort of warm welcoming darkness.


	70. Chapter 70

**A/N: ****My darlings****, you have me slightly worried. I do receive a lot of reviews from you saying that this story is long and even drawn out. It writes itself such, since that is how this Wren's brain works. And although I still have a well-planned and still rather extensive plot ahead (I'm afraid I might end up with 200 chapter fic O_o), this weekend is very important for them, and it is just so much fun to write Wren's journey of sexual discovery. Would you like me to skip to the heavy stuff, a more action driven part? They do have a lot to learn and a lot to build ahead of them, bedroom frolics being just a part of it. I'm very much open to the suggestions!**

* * *

><p>You wake up with a jerk, with the familiar sensation of tears running down your face, sobs bubbling in your throat, and you thrash, blindly battering your hand to your right, looking for the lamp to turn on, and then you realise it is daytime, and you are not home.<p>

"Shhh, love, it's OK," John's voice is calm and soothing, he is running his hand through your hair, but you quickly look and see that his face is concerned, he is frowning, and you wonder what you managed to blabber out. You talk in your sleep, especially if you are overtired, and considering how quickly you fell asleep, your body did need this rest. You have a choice between moving away, sitting your back to him and wiping your tears. You can take a few breaths in and ground yourself, and then address the situation. Or you can accept the embrace that he is offering, his arms are open, but of course he is not pressuring.

You bury your face into his chest, breathe him in, and press your forehead to his scorching skin. He didn't put on his tee, and you splay your hand on his shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" His tone is soft, and you shake your head. It is a usual nightmare, of the mild sort, the boys bullying you at school, at least it's not your foster father.

"How long have I slept?" He shifts and looks at his watch.

"About an hour. It's half past two." You press your cheek to his skin, and the chest hair is tickling you, there is a line going down, and his stomach is right in front of your nose, and you brush the tips of your fingers on it. He jerks and makes another of his funny snorting sounds. "I'm ticklish, love. Please don't." You lift your face, you want the two of you to move past the nightmare, but you see he is still tense, his eyes are roaming your face, and you are not certain where to go from this.

"I'm hungry," you blurt out, and then blush spills on your cheeks. You suddenly realise that he invited you for dinner, and it was yesterday, and you stayed for another half a day, and it is very much possible you are overstaying his welcome. He might have had plans, and first he had to feed you "breakfast slash lunch," and then you fell asleep on him. You are aware you are not good in social situations, and you also know that even for more socially proficient people the morning after is a common aggro.

He suddenly sits up, cups your face and pulls you into a deep, very, very inappropriate kiss, his tongue is doing all sorts of wonderful things, he sucks your bottom lip in, and you are panting and grabbing his naked shoulders, and you are absolutely crazy about his tanned warm skin. He suddenly jerks away from you and gives you a firm stare.

"Stop worrying, please. Just say what is bothering you." His tone is gentle though, and you trust him.

"I'm worried that I should have left in the morning… That you are just too polite to ask me to leave..." Your voice is small, and you want to twist your face out of his hands, but he kisses you again, quickly and no less ardently, and you don't want him to let you go. You want more of his kisses.

"I would prefer you to stay here till Monday morning, when I need to leave for work," he is murmuring into your neck he is currently kissing, and you still, shocked by his words. "I want you to stay in my bed, we can bring food here and watch some film. Do you want to watch a film?" There is an obvious underlying meaning in his question, and he is kissing your collarbones, slightly pulling the collar of the galabeya down.

"Do _you _want to watch a film?" You are breathing very heavily, but you are starting to think you can do suggestive tone as well, "Because it looks like you are aiming for a different pastime." He chuckles into your skin, and you wonder if you can ask him to repeat what he did before you fell asleep. Or something else. You think about it and assert you want something else. You understand you are still wound up after the nightmare, and your inhibitions are slightly lowered, and you should proceed with caution, but you shift and catch his mouth. He doesn't seem to mind, you let your hands explore his torso, and although he seemed very warm before, now it feels as if he is heating up under your hands even more, as if there is a furnace inside him, or a forge. Your head is spinning, and he is taking deep sharp breaths in. His sides are moving like the sides of a horse after a race, his palm on the back of your head feels dominating, and you don't want to get scared of his sudden loud masculinity, so you push him backwards on the bed, taking initiative. He complies eagerly, he gently helps you climb on his again, and your pelvis is suddenly pressed over his erection. You shortly wonder how many of them he can have a day, but then you remember his words about Thoringtons being stuck in adolescent libidinousness.

You also understand that you are currently more turned on than ever, and perhaps you should use this opportunity to push your boundaries a bit. You grab the hem of the galabeya and start pulling it up. You still have knickers underneath, when he brought you to orgasm before, he was touching you over them, but you don't have a bra, and to be honest as much as it scares you, this is not your main trigger. All your lower back is covered in scars, mostly from that one time you were hit by a kettle of boiling water, but there are more scars scattered all over your back, mostly below your shoulder blades. There are a few on thighs, but although visible they are smooth. They are from earlier and healed better.

He suddenly places his hands on yours and halts you. "Wren, stop..." His eyes are dark, he is obviously randy, his teeth are clenched, and then he closes his eyes and slowly inhales four times, flaring his nostrils, exhaling through rounded lips. He is doing the usual breathing exercises, bringing him mind onto his breathing, and you don't understand. You are still shaking, from the adrenaline and the arousal, and then his eyes open, and they are calm, and he brushes his thumbs over the backs of your hands. He sits up, your legs are around his waist, and then he slides his hands onto your buttocks and pulls you closer. "Wren, love, you need to think about it..." His tone is so loving and a bit sad that you feel a lump in your throat.

"I think I am ready..." Your voice is very quiet.

"For what?" He is not being sarcastic, his eyes are soft, and you relax a bit. "Love, I don't know how to say it to you so you get it right… But I don't really need to see you..." Your face probably twitches, because he rushes in, "I mean I want to see you, and especially your breasts, I am very curious," he gives you a soft little smile, "And I want to see, but I know you are worried about scars, and you need to be comfortable... And you need to want… to be touched and kissed. It's not like we are crossing some sort of a big barrier here… And I saw you scars, and they are not ugly, just stripes on your skin..." He is really struggling to explain it, but you think you get it. He isn't saying it's no big deal, he is saying he understands. "Love, let's have more nudity when you want me to look and touch and kiss and it doesn't make you anxious, OK? Because I will want to kiss and touch because I want you to enjoy it. I want to give your pleasure, and when you want it that's when you should show me your body."

You wrap your arms around his neck, press into him and give yourself a few moment to think. He is hugging you in return, patiently waiting.

"Can I ask a silly question?" You whisper, and he softly chuckles. His hand strokes your hair.

"Of course, love, but I'm certain you are too much of smartypants for that." You snort. You are still shaky but you feel much better.

"Do you really think my breasts might be beautiful?"


	71. Chapter 71

**A/N: ****My dearest readers****, thank you for your reviews and reassurance. And yes, let us continue :)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN#2: My darling ****hattifnatt****, by "a trip" did you mean travelling? Because there is a trip to Brazil in stock for them. **

**Or, did you mean they should get out of the flat? :) Because that was my thought exactly, they have been cooped up in that bed for a while, so yes, dinner out. But first… ;)**

* * *

><p>He blinks and stares at you. "Wren, what exactly are you asking? And what do you mean by 'might be beautiful'? I am a man, they are breasts, it's a match made in heaven," he is giving you a slightly amused look. "And they are yours, which adds some charm to them." You are frowning. "And something tells me that is not the answer you were looking for..." You feel like you are almost asking for too much, and you tell yourself you will be a better girlfriend next time and will not torture his brain, which according to Thea is 'just wired the other way.' But right now you need him to answer. She also suggested breaking down your questions in points.<p>

"OK, bear with me," you feel very embarrassed, but he doesn't seem to mind and nods, "They are small, I am skinny, and it is traditionally considered that men prefer… more..." That seems to make sense to him, and he nods again.

"OK, that I get, and no, I do not prefer bigger breasts. I don't have a type to be honest, but I do consider petite women attractive. And in current society as far as I understand little pressure is put on women of such proportions." His tone is funnily mentoring, and you can see he is pressing his lips together not to laugh now. You have gone from solemn discussion of your scars and your boundaries to a roleplay of a teacher and a student.

"And what about… you said you will like them more because they are mine?" That is something very masculine, you honestly don't understand, and he snorts, probably from your very inquisitive facial expression.

"Wren, I won't be fondling breasts once I get my hands on them," he points on your breasts with his long nose, "You and I will be..."

"Copping off?" You offer as if helpfully, you are starting to find this whole discussion ridiculous as well.

"Lovely, Wren, thank you for sugarcoating it," you really like his white toothed grin, "But yes, pretty much. I will be enjoying touching because hopefully you'll enjoy being touched. And they look very… touchable." He suddenly lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers in the air. "Just the perfect size, yes, I am certain it will be lovely." He is definitely taking the mickey now, and you are feeling very happy all of a sudden. You are giving out an exaggerated sigh, and dropping your head you shrug off the robe and point at your galabeya covered tits.

"OK, indulge yourself," your tone is dull, and then you peek. He is staring at you, and then he sees your face and starts laughing.

"Goodness, Wren, you are really something..." And then he cups both your breasts, the cotton of galabeya is thin, and goosebumps run down your back. "I was right, just the perfect size. Last time the bra was a bit confusing, but this..." He brushes the thumbs in the nipples, and you feel like dropping your head back, there is some odd sensation of liquid heat between your shoulder blades. "This is ace." You are probably pink head to toe, and then you remember what he said about your scars.

"I know you said the scars don't seem ugly to you, but I don't want them to distract you… When you look at me..." You are speaking quieter and quieter, "I want to seem beautiful to you." He opens his mouth but you place your index finger on his lips. "I feel… desirable, often... when I am with you… when you look at me… And I don't want to worry that they will… throw you off. But I don't think waiting will help with that. I think we should just take the galabeya off and get over with it." His eyebrows twitch.

"Wren," he kisses your finger, and you lower your hand, "It's the same tearing off plaster in one move idea of yours."

"It worked well with sex!" You sound defensive. He lifts one brow. He is right, and maybe five minutes ago before this ridiculous discussion of your tits it would have been wrong, you were not thinking straight and were emotionally compromised, but right now you think you see it clearly.

You quickly pick up the hem and pull the galabeya off your body. You throw it aside, you are sitting on him, only in your knickers, and you feel this is the most open and trusting you have ever been with anybody. He is staring at your breasts. You are hoping for some words of reassurance and compliments, you want to feel beautiful and sexy, you are cold, you are skinny, you have pale skin, you are not feeling graceful and alluring as you were hoping.

"Can I… Can I touch you?" His voice is coarse, and his eyes are dark, they look hungry, and suddenly it dawns on you. He has been exceptionally considerate and angelically patient with you, from the very start and every step of the way, he has been understanding, witty when necessary, perceptive, and again, patient, but he is a human being, and right now he just wants to touch his girlfriend. And you realise you are OK with that. He is a man, he is not perfect, he is not supposed to know that at the moment you want praise and some poetic comparisons. You need to make the necessary steps to be comfortable in your sex life yourself, it's not his job to therapize you through it. You take a deep breath in, you think you know how you should proceed.

"You can," he tentatively lifts his hands, "but..." His hands freeze, "You will also have to talk and tell me how it feels. I need reassurance, I'm freaking out." Your voice is shaking, and he tears his eyes from your tits. "How do they look?"

He splays his hands on your ribs for some reason and rubs your skin with his thumbs again. You like his hands, the fingers are long and very masculine, and in them you feel small, but in a good way, not sickly and frail, but delicate.

"_You_ look beautiful," he leans in and gently kisses you, "Your skin is… there is a glow… And you are so..." He is kissing your neck now, and you understand there will be no compliments, no words, just actions. You drop your head back and close your eyes. You might be alright with it.

He is still not moving his hands, and you cover them, and with your fingers intertwined you move them over your breasts. He is kissing, moving lower, you lean backwards, his hot lips are between your breasts now, it's intoxicating, and you realise you are almost lying on your back. You shift and pull him after you. You are now spread on the bed, and he is kissing your stomach. His hands are travelling all over your torso, returning to the breasts again and again, one or another finger brushing your tips. They are sensitive, and you realise you are moaning again. You don't care. His lips are on the waist of your knickers, and you whine loudly. You want him to do something to help you get rid of the tension between your legs. He isn't moving his mouth lower, he probably doesn't know if that was you objecting or you spurring.

"Please..." You can't manage more than this, but he understands.

"Can I..? Should I take them off?" His voice is raspy.

"Yes… No, wait, no, it's too much… But please do something… I want..." You can't think straight, there is no pause in his caresses, and at the moment his hands keep on dancing on you, and it's as if there is some warm syrup being poured on your skin, you are tingly, and then he pressed the tip of his nose on your clit, over your knickers, and rubs it up and down. You suddenly jump away from him, you just remembered that you have already had an orgasm in them, and they were… sticky.

"Oh no, please... No… What?" He is looking at you, eyes widened frantically, and you are shocked to realise that perhaps he was enjoyed it.

"I didn't take a shower after… The knickers..." He suddenly grabs your hips, you squeak, and he pulls you towards him, and suddenly his eyes are right in front of yours. You realise he is breathing heavily, he looks almost drunk, feverish red spots on his cheeks, you were so absorbed in your sensations you didn't notice what it was doing to him.

"Wren," he is snarling through his teeth, "I will be blunt, because I can't think… I want to taste you, OK? I like your smell, and there too… I want to taste you there… So whenever you feel comfortable to let me, just say it..." He is shaking, and you are staring at him almost terrified.

But then you think about this whole day. You two were kissing, he was aroused, then he gave you an orgasm, you fell asleep, then he got randy again, you started asking him ridiculous questions, then he got randy again, you jumped away from him. He is really trying here, but he is no super human after all. He is weighing on you, his chest pressed to your stomach, hot and wide, and you grab his ears.

"Let's build a tent."


	72. Chapter 72

**A/N: Dear ****Cassandrala****, upon your request… :) See the end of the chapter.**

* * *

><p>This time he is rushed, he weighs on your body more, he is moving faster, his thrusts more forceful, and at the beginning you tense a bit, but then you relax, and once you close your eyes, you are starting to feel the same tension grow in the bottom of your stomach. He is supporting himself on his elbows, you two are kissing frantically, your legs wrap around his waist, he is mumbling, you are moaning. Basically you are doing ace.<p>

You are enjoying it too much to try to control anything, and to observe as if from outside. He nips your neck, and you gasp, and then you twist your head and gently bite into his beard covered jaw. The whiskers scrape on your teeth, and it is as brill as you expected, or maybe more, you can't think. There are so many exquisite sensations, the way the skin on your inner thighs rubs to his hot hips, you shift and press your heels into his buttocks, he has a very proportional build, and whom are you kidding, even you understand that is a very sexy butt! Your hands are jumping from the shoulders, meet at his back, then you are brushing his narrow waist, you just can't decide what to touch, he is glorious, and beautiful, and all yours. There is some sort of possessive urge in you, and you grab his hair and pull it, making his move back a bit and meet your eyes. You want to see, and they are just perfect, half-lidded, and then they fly open, and he loves you, you can see it, he kisses you ardently, and he is moving on you, into you, with you, your pelvis rises from the sheets, your body is trying to let him in deeper, and then he loudly growls and suddenly stops.

"Wren… I want you to come… Can you come?" He is snarling, his head is pressed into your shoulder, and you whine, you want him to keep on moving, you feel hungry, and although he is large, and strong, and hot, and there is rough hair everywhere, you were feeling so empowered, he was all yours, and you dig your heels into his buttocks.

"Please, move. I don't know… I don't care, please..." He lifts his head and starts placing little kisses on your cheeks. He is almost panicked, and you guess he is close.

"Can I do something? We can change positions..." And you don't know where the next line comes from, but you can't stand this pause anymore.

"Shut up and move!" He stares at you, and you are ready to yell at him.

"God, what are you even..." He shakes his head, like a pony, the dark waves brush your face, you buck your pelvis, it's some sort of a half-conscious demand from your body, and he groans and rolls his hips into you. You wail, you sound almost triumphant, and after that it's all forceful determined thrusts and your loud cheering.

He comes and falls on you again, this time you are not at all freaked out by the long string of obscenities that pours out of him, and you press your splayed hands on his nape. You are stroking him, he is breathing raspily, and you are feeling very smug. It is probably some sort of possessive female thing, you have satisfied your male, and now you are purring and clawing at him like a cat on a pillow.

"I wanted you to come..." His tone is disappointed, and muffled, his face is pressed into the pillow, nose squished to the side, and you start laughing loudly.

"And I wanted to eat. Apparently none of us got what they wanted." He lifts his face and gives you an incredulous look. You are feeling so free and giddy that you continue your frolics, "And warn me when you decide to clean up, I'm still not ready for that view."

"Seriously, Leary?" He narrows his eyes, and you understand you are in trouble, you giggle, you can't wait, "I've noticed you've been avoiding the post-coital fun. You do this to me, that," he points somewhere between your bodies with his eyes, "That's your doing, so..."

"When I am brave enough to look at your penis I probably want it erect and proud and all... majestic," you are giggling loudly, and he kisses you pointedly sloppily, and you press your hands into his forehead and cheeks pretending to try to push him away.

"Oh, you don't like the manky part of sex, do you, Leary?" He is twisting his head trying to reach your face, you are roaring with laughter and then start squealing because he sticks his tongue out and tries to lick you. "But there is a wrinkly soft penis inside of you at the moment, and there is nothing you can do about it!" You squeal louder.

"Why did you have to say that?" He is guffawing and then wiggles his butt in the air, his hips still grounded into you.

"Because it's true. And you know what else is there?"

You clasp a hand over his mouth and yell, "No, no! I don't want to hear it! No! I demand dinner!" He licks your hand, and you jerk it back. "Please, dinner? Out? We need to leave this bed finally..." He is chuckling and then kisses the tip of your nose.

"Close your eyes, Leary, I'm getting up. And yes, we need to eat." You gratefully smile to him and cover your face with your hands. He slides off you and disappears in the bathroom. You spread on the bed like a seastar. It is amazing how far the two of you have gone since last night. You might have checked out his arse when he was leaving. He was still wearing PJ bottoms, but you are fully naked and you are fine with it, given you are covered by a duvet. You have moved to sex pretty quickly, he didn't touch your upper half much, and especially he didn't touch the back, but still, you are very proud of yourself.

An hour later the two of you are chewing dinner in a Greek place near his flat, when his mobile rings. He excuses himself, and you watch him talk to someone, pacing the parlour of the cafe. He pushes the other hand deep in his denim pocket, you understand he is distressed, that is his typical gesture, and you freeze with a fork with spanakorizo mid-air. He comes back and sits in front of you again.

"It was Dea, and they are inviting us for lunch and a footie game."

"Footie game?"

"Yeah, Phil plays in the city league, and they play indoors in winter. So we would have to watch a herd of overgrown man-boys run and yell, and then they invite us to their place. After they deployed, they live with Dea." He pokes his Dolmathakia with a fork and frowns. "We don't have to go, I said I'd ask you what your plans were for tomorrow… And if you have any..."

"I don't."

"Wren, I would love to spend tomorrow with you," he blurts out and finally lifts his eyes from his food, and you see he is anxious. "To be honest I'd prefer you to stay at my place tonight again. But I'll understand if you don't feel like it. It's been an emotional day. And we can go for lunch, if you have time..." You need to think it over. You assumed you were going home after the dinner, but suddenly you think you might want to sleep with him tonight. And maybe you won't need the pillow barrier. He is wearing a nautical stripy sweater over a denim shirt, his hand is on the table, and you look at his wrist and the forearm under pulled-up sleeves. You will sleep in his bed tonight, and he will wrap around you.

"I'd love to stay at your place," you sound shy, but then you look up, and the grin he is wearing makes you giggle. "And we could meet with your family tomorrow..." You chew at your bottom lip. "Can I decide a bit later?"

"Definitely." He enthusiastically tucks into his food, and you are once again ogling him, you can't help it. His cheek sticks out from the food behind it, and you love how his jaw is moving when he chews.

At the end of dinner he picks up a box of baklava, you tease him, and he wraps one arm around you, he pauses for a second before doing it and you move closer, showing him he can, and he is kissing you, dunking you backwards in a Hollywood style kiss, the box in his other hand, the cafe starts applauding, and he is so good that you are not anxious about the PDA.


	73. Chapter 73

**A/N: A bit of your attention, my duckies! Keep an eye for a silly Christmas three-piece morsel I am preparing for you! A ridiculous modern little something with Wrennie and John and too many biscuits and just the right amount of kisses under a mistletoe :) The first chapter will be published December 18th or 19th, once I recover from crying coma (BoFA premiers here the 17th), and the last one right before Christmas. And I have to warn you, if you didn't get any cavities from other of my stories, this one will send you straight to the dentist! :) LOVE YOU ALL!**

* * *

><p>You wake up in his arms, and it is indeed the 'bloody octopus treatment' you are receiving, but you are starting to think that you could potentially withstand it on the regular basis, maybe not every night but occasionally. It has to be preceded by a very good evening, and you had a great one. The two of you watched "Roman Holidays" that he claims he is inexplicably fond of. You suspect there is a reason, but he is too embarrassed to tell, and it is alright with you. There are so many things the two of you haven't talked about, and you think it is wonderful. There will always be something to discuss then, and there are things you are not ready to share either. To think of it he knows nothing about your past, although on the factual level you have little to tell, but someday perhaps you will be ready to. You are working on disclosing these facts in your therapy right now, and if he asks, he might be the person you'd be most comfortable to talk to. After the film you decorously took showers, brushed teeth and climbed under the duvet like an old married couple. What proceeded was more from a teen film area, and then you commanded him to sleep. He laughed, and you curled into him.<p>

His nose is pressed into your temple, and his massive arms are holding you in steel shackles, you carefully try to get out, he makes those funny sleepy noises you are already familiar with, and you study his face. He might be pretending to sleep again, so you lean in and whisper, "Sodium sodium sodium sodium sodium sodium sodium sodium sodium Batman." He's mentioned he is a DC bloke, you prefer Marvel, but again the joke is good. He doesn't snort or his lips don't twitch, which means he is actually sleeping, and you can ogle him as much as you want.

After nine minutes nature calls, and you weasel out of his arms and mince to the bathroom. You are brushing your teeth, and a realisation dawns. You don't have a brush, and even more so his family will see you in the same clothes they saw you wear Friday evening. Maybe the two of you need to stop at your place. There is a knock at the bathroom door, and you jump up. You were examining your face in the mirror. You have rosy cheeks and an idiotic grin on your face. That is the face of post coital bliss apparently, and yours has not worn off since yesterday afternoon.

You allow him entrance, and he sleepily drags himself in, hugs you from behind, and leans with a generous share of his weight onto you. His head is pressed into your shoulder, and he grumpily says he needs coffee. Apparently he is a morning grouch. Apparently you don't mind. You two are kissing like teenagers in his bathroom, and then he is murmuring in your ear that he loves you. His PJ bottoms are tenting, and you grab his hand and drag him back into the bedroom. Galabeya stays on you, you are on top, and it is ace. The two of you take another nap, and after quick showers you finally head out for elevenses in a coffee shop in the next block.

"I need to stop by my flat and change, your family will know that I've been in your place this whole time." He is drinking his sugar with a bit of coffee added in it.

"Well, I don't see anything bad about it. And again, you can take something of mine," he offers nonchalantly. You open your mouth to say that that is absurd, but then you see that he is avoiding your eyes. Your constant vigilance is ringing a bell.

"Is that something in the same areas as your foot thing?" You ask lightly, and he chokes on his cuppa.

"God, Wren…" He coughs, and there is a bit of flush on his cheekbones. You swoon like a dimwit, the black beard and the tanned skin are destructive for your cognitive abilities, and now you know how his skin tastes and how beard whiskers scrape at your teeth when you are gently nibbling at his jaw. "And no, the foot thing is just me being weird, this is a typical man thing. We like you in our clothes." That is quite a generalisation.

"I will look odd." He leans across the table and beckons you with a finger. You lean in too, and he whispers.

"It will look like you had sex with me." You emit a loud, a hundred percent fake gasp.

"I would never!"

You end up wearing his sweater, he offers you to try several, they all look like dresses, but some work with your trousers, but after six of them that are actually decent you suss out that he rejects them because he wants you to continue parading in front of him in his clothes. You take a deep breath and jump at him. He falls backwards on the bed, and you suddenly remember how terrifying this position used to be. Right now you think there is nothing better than his hard, scorching body under you. You are nervous about the game and the lunch, and you suddenly wonder if you can convince him to go back under the duvet.

You have never thought that at any point in your life being in bed with another person would be the most comfortable social situation for you, but here you are. You are kissing his neck, and then he gently cups your face, as if asking to look at him, and you meet his tender blue eyes.

"You are distracted, love. Are you nervous about the lunch? I mean, we can stay..."

"I want to go," you are not completely certain, but you push yourself. "After all I spent so much time choosing an outfit." He chuckles, you two kiss, and then finally you are ready to go.

You take a cab to the game, you are late, and you are clenching his hand. You are worried about so many things, your head is spinning. You can't stand unfamiliar social situations, you are uncomfortable in a crowd, you want his family to like you.

The pitch is small, it's a five-a-side football, and you find seats at the back. Dea is sitting close, chatting with some young woman, you assume she is one of the players' girlfriends. There are two cute young blondes and judging by cheering they are here for Phil. You give John a questioning look, and he rolls his eyes. There are two big families, they yell and jump on their feet as soon as there is any progress in the game. In five minutes you get absorbed in it as well, they are actually very good, and you find yourself clenching your fists, when Phil lunges ahead, and both you and John loudly yell when he scores. He sees the two of you and waves, his hundred watt grin can probably be seen from Messier 42. Dea turns around and waves to you as well. Killian is nowhere to be seen, and John tells you he'll join you at lunch. Something is off in John's tone, but he is already watching Phil steal another pass, and you return your attention to the game.


End file.
